


A Good Few Verses

by reena_jenkins, sospes



Series: A Good Few Verses [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Audio Format: M4B, Audio Format: MP3, Audio Format: Streaming, Canon-Typical Violence, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Full Podfic Downloads In Chapter 7, Geralt of Rivia is Good at Feelings!, Idiots in Love, Like... A Lot of Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Mortality, Motherhood, Multi, OT3, Podfic, Podfic Length: 7-10 Hours, Polyamory, Rivals to Drinking Buddies to Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:40:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 74,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26128180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reena_jenkins/pseuds/reena_jenkins, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sospes/pseuds/sospes
Summary: Five times Yennefer shares a drink with Jaskier over the course of their relationship, and one time she drinks with Geralt, instead.It’s a love story - with alotof alcohol.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: A Good Few Verses [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1911319
Comments: 316
Kudos: 438
Collections: Pod_Together 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This monster of a fic was written for Pod_Together 2020, and it was very much not supposed to be this long! The first estimate of the word count was, oh, somewhere between 10 and 15K, but then it just sort of... grew.
> 
> I’ve liked the idea of the OT3 for a while, but what always annoyed me was that while we see Geralt’s relationships with Jaskier and Yennefer in canon, the only thing we see of Jaskier and Yennefer’s relationship is a bit of sniping. Just throwing the three of them together in a fic is... unbalanced. Then reena_jenkins mentioned she was up for a Yennefer-centric fic (and Yennefer’s POV is an absolute delight to write), and now here we are, redressing that balance! 
> 
> It’s been a blast to work on, and I hope you enjoy!

__

**[PODFIC MOBILE STREAMING LINK | 01:22:17](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_%20pt1.mp3)**

[full podfic downloads available in chapter 7]

* * *

_one._

There’s a man watching Yennefer from across the bar.

For the time being, she pays him no heed. She’s used to being watched, used to the crawl of lustful eyes across her skin, and, from time to time, admittedly, it’s exactly what she needs. She knows how to flaunt herself, knows how to _display_ herself to get what she wants, _who_ she wants—men are so very predictable, after all—but for now, she’s not interested. She has a glass of wine in her hand and she’s sitting close enough to the open front of the bar that she has a view over Vizima’s central square, golden in the sunlight, buzzing with the hum of midsummer. There are people to watch, there’s fashion to judge, there’s a whole afternoon ahead of her that she has no interest in wasting on a stranger in a bar.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the man shift. He squares his shoulders, ripples the muscles in his arms, tosses his floppy blond hair out of his eyes, then takes a long drink of his wine in a way that highlights the tendons in his throat, the bulge of his larynx, the colour of his tan. He slams his empty glass down on the tabletop, ostentatiously calls, “Another glass of Erveluce!”

He’s peacocking. He’s spreading his tail-feathers, shaking his puffed-up crest.

Yennefer rolls her eyes, and drinks her wine.

Vizima’s market is in full, raucous flow today, stallholders crying out the price of their wares, merchants haggling like their lives depend on it, tourists flitting between the rows of stalls with shouts and laughter on their lips. The smell is a little overwhelming, if Yennefer is honest, frying meat, fresh-cured leather, pickled herring, overripe produce, the oils that the armourers use to keep their swords clean and shining, the dirt and shit on the shoes of the tradesfolk, the general reek of sweaty, unwashed bodies crammed into a too-small space on market day. The bar she’s chosen is far enough away from the main mass of the trading that the smell isn’t too bad, but occasionally a particularly potent whiff will reach her, strong enough to make her bury her nose in her glass and drink a little deeper.

“My lady.”

Yennefer looks up.

The barman’s bald head gleams with sweat, and he’s balancing a tray on one hand, the other tucked behind his back. On the tray is a large glass of deep red wine. “Evreluce,” the barman says, his bow an appropriate depth to indicate his respect but not too deep that he spills the wine all over her gauzy white skirts. “From the gentleman in the corner.”

Yennefer glances over at the blond man, at his floppy hair and tanned skin and ostentatious muscles. His smile is confident, bordering on arrogant, and he raises his matching glass of Evreluce to her, fingers long, nails trimmed.

Yennefer turns back to the bustle of Vizima’s market day. “He can drink it himself,” she says, bored.

The barman hesitates. “My lady—”

“Or,” Yennefer interrupts, not a shout, not a yell, but nonetheless loud enough that it’ll carry for anyone who’s listening, “he can forget the wine and present me his balls on a silver platter. I can buy my own wine. The testicles of a brutish oaf, however, are something I’m lacking at present – and they would be very useful for a spell I’m working on.”

The barman’s eyebrows climb further up his forehead. “My lady _sorceress_ ,” he says, sketching another bow. “I’ll pass on the message.”

Yennefer glances across the bar. The blond man’s expression is now caught somewhere between outrage and horror, and as she watches he abandons his drink, gathers up his hat and his rapier, and hurries out of the bar. She follows him for a second, a small smile twitching the corner of her lips, until he vanishes into the heaving mass of the market – then she turns to the barman, still standing frozen at her side. “I’ll take the wine,” she says, a little lazily, and reaches out and plucks the glass from the tray.

The barman hovers for a second longer, then thinks better of whatever he was going to say and leaves her alone.

Yennefer thinks that’s probably for the best.

The Evreluce is frankly delightful, smooth and mellow on her palate, and she drinks the glass probably a little faster than she really should. That’s alright, though, because the afternoon sun is warm, there’s a breeze coming off Lake Vizima that makes the air light and cooling, the back of the velvet-upholstered chair is soft against her bare shoulders. It’s a slow afternoon, a lazy afternoon, an afternoon for sitting still as the world rolls by, an afternoon for wine and quiet contemplation – and judging the dresses of the wealthy Viziman women strolling past, really, a ruff like _that?_ Yennefer scoffs a little, finishes off her wine, sets the glass down on the table. The current fashion in this part of Temeria seems to be for ruffs of increasingly extravagant size and colour which seems more than a little idiotic, given the current soaring temperature, and all the women who go past in those ludicrous contraptions are practically _dripping_ with sweat, makeup sliding off their fine cheekbones and elegant noses, dark stains under their armpits.

Yennefer sits back in her thin, light, chiffon-and-lace dress, smoothes her hands down over her stomach, and feels more than a little smug.

Footsteps sound on the polished floorboards, coming to a halt just behind her. It’s not the barman, she’d recognise his smell of stale wine and sweat a mile away, and she lets out a short sigh, rolls her eyes so hard she practically sees the back of her head. She looks back over her shoulder, the words _Fuck off_ already framed by her lips – and stops dead.

Jaskier has two glasses in one hand and a bottle in the other, and there’s an indefinable look in his eyes as he holds the bottle up towards her. “Fancy sharing a drink with an old…” he says, then stutters, trails off, winces. “I was going to say _old friend_ ,” he says again, lips curling in a faintly sour expression, “but I’m not really sure how accurate that is. Old acquaintance?” He doesn’t quite smile. “Old rival?”

Something bitter sits heavy in Yennefer’s stomach. “I admire your optimism in thinking that you could _ever_ rival me,” she says, a lick of cruelty in her voice.

Jaskier’s expression falls, just a little. “Fair enough,” he says, lowering the bottle to his side. “I guess I’ll… leave you to it.” He flashes her a smile, small and subdued but probably the most genuine thing Yennefer’s seen in weeks. “See you around, Yennefer.”

Yennefer grits her teeth. She knows what she’s doing, knows that she’s angry, she’s bitter, she’s resentful – but she knows what _he’s_ doing, too. He’s fucking… _reaching out_ , because that’s who he is, isn’t he? He’s soft and empathetic and kind. He’s gentle and bright and cheerful.

“The wine,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier pauses, midway through turning away from her. “Est Est,” he says, then angles the bottle so she can see the Toussainti stamp on the neck.

Yennefer does like Est Est.

“Sit,” Yennefer says, and pushes a chair towards him.

Jaskier sits without hesitation, puts the two fresh glasses down and pours. “It’s a good vintage,” he says. “From five, maybe six years ago, I think? They had exceptionally good weather in Toussaint for the whole growing season, made the grapes particularly… grape-like, apparently.” He flashes Yennefer another smile, more performative, this time. “I don’t know much about making wine,” he confides. “Pretty good at drinking it, though.”

Yennefer pauses for a second, but then he pushes an overly-full glass across the table towards her and she accepts it. The glass is cool against her fingertips, and, when she drinks, the wine is sweet and rich.

Jaskier settles back in his seat, the picture of confidence, and sips his own. He hums appreciatively, raises an eyebrow. “You know, I was sceptical when the barman told me it was his best,” he says, drinks again. The wine leaves a sheen of red slicked across his lips, and he licks it away, an absent motion. “But this _is_ good. And I’ve drunk a lot of Est Est in my time.”

Yennefer folds one arm across her stomach, props her other elbow on her hand. She takes another sip, holds it on her tongue, savouring.

“I think my favourite is the twelve-fifty-seven harvest,” Jaskier says. “It’s rare – and _very_ expensive. Only ever had it once, at this banquet in Kaedwen a couple of years ago. They were feting some… general, I think, I wasn’t really paying attention. The guests left a lot of the good stuff just laying around, very careless of them, so I figured they wouldn’t mind if I sampled the wares.” He shrugs, swirls wine around in his glass. “Got very drunk, very fast,” he says. “Ended up spending the night carousing with the cooks and the servants in the castle kitchens – _much_ better company than the princes and lords up above, let me tell you! Squirrelled away a couple of bottles, too, hid them in my bags, figured I’d save them to share with – a rainy day.”

Yennefer doesn’t miss the hesitation, or the awkward phrasing. She also doesn’t miss the fact that Jaskier’s face falls, just a little, just a fraction, enough that she would miss it if she were less observant. As she watches, Jaskier fumbles his glass, stares into it for a moment before drinking deep – and, all of a sudden, Yennefer realises why.

Who _else_ would he save expensive wine for?

Her throat burns.

Yennefer puts her glass down on the tabletop, does her best to ignore the tremor in her fingers. “What brings you to Vizima?” she asks, because if there is one thing she _does not want_ to talk about, one thing that she _isn’t_ going to let ruin her restful, wine-drunk afternoon, it’s the thought of _him_.

A moment later, she realises that, in all likelihood, Jaskier is thinking the exact same thing right now.

Jaskier’s smile is tense, fragile, like cracked glass. “A competition,” he says, his voice as bright as Yennefer’s ever heard. “Not one of the big ones, nothing to write home about winning.” He pauses, pulls a face she can’t quite parse. “If I ever wrote home, that is – but the prize money’s good.” He taps the bottle with his fingertip. “Bought me this.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “You won?”

Jaskier’s lips twist. “Not first place,” he says, clearly annoyed. “Second.” He shakes his head, his expression flickering through emotions so quickly that Yennefer can’t separate them out. “Which is still good, I suppose,” he says, clearly not believing his own words. “Second is okay. And, I mean, I _was_ a bit hungover for the final – made the mistake of going drinking with a couple of dwarves the night before, really should have known better! But who am I to refuse free drinks?”

“A professional musician?” Yennefer offers, reaching for her glass once more mainly because she needs something to hide the amused smile that’s quirking her lips.

Jaskier scoffs. “Part of being a professional musician,” he points out, “is being able to perform on a raging hangover. It’s basically cheating that the woman who won was _sober!_ Rather takes the fun out of it, you know?” He rolls his eyes, drinks another mouthful of Est Est. “What’s the point in a competition if you already know who’s going to win?”

“So you just assume that, if you weren’t hungover, you’d have won?” Yennefer asks, eyebrow raised.

“I _know_ I’d have won,” Jaskier says, and it’s such an arrogantly straightforward statement that it, perversely, sends a spark of something warm through Yennefer’s heart. “Melitta, the winner – I’ve competed against her half a dozen times in the past few years, in all the big competitions, much more internationally recognised than the shitty _Artists’ Waltz_ in Vizima. And I’ve _always_ placed higher than her, even on the rare occasion I didn’t win!” He pauses, frowns down at the wine in his hand. “Maybe she paid those dwarves to get me drunk,” he says, sounding more annoyed by the prospect than anything else. “Maybe _that’s_ why they were so interested in my poetry.”

Yennefer snorts, and she’s blaming the inelegance of the sound on the fact that she’s about three glasses of wine deep already. “I think they were paid to sabotage your performance,” she says, but it’s more amused than bitter, this time. “ _No one’s_ interested in your poetry.”

Jaskier’s eyes flash. “Well then,” he says, arch and affronted – but with a lick of humour that tells her that he’s at least mostly joking. “This is the _last_ time I offer to share a drink with _you_ , Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

Yennefer very firmly suppresses the urge to laugh. “And why exactly _did_ you decide to share your wine with me, bard?” she asks. “Whether you won second place or first, Est Est isn’t cheap.”

Jaskier cocks his head, and there’s a smile in the creases around his eyes. “You didn’t seem too fond of the Erveluce,” he says. “Thought that if I wanted to keep my balls firmly attached to my body, Est Est might be a better choice. And I am quite fond of my balls, you know.”

“Are you spying on me, Jaskier?” Yennefer asks, not quite sure whether to be surprised or offended.

Jaskier shrugs. “It’s not spying if you shout it for the whole of Vizima to hear.”

Yennefer’s laugh is sharp and unexpected, and Jaskier almost seems as surprised as she is. “I suppose not,” she allows, then reaches for her glass, buying herself enough time to push that laughter down as far as it needs to go. “I’m here to enjoy the wine and watch the market,” she says, the warmth of the Est Est rich in her stomach. “I don’t need men slavering after me, especially not ones who don’t have the courage to approach me directly.” She rolls her eyes. “Don’t use the barman as a go-between. If you want something, _take_ it.” She sighs, tosses the rest of the wine back and sets the glass down on the table. A drop of red wine escapes her lips, drips towards her dress, and she flicks her fingers, catches it in midair. She studies the hovering crimson sphere. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” she says finally, then flicks the droplet of wine to the floor.

“Why not?” Jaskier asks, raising an eyebrow. “Because I don’t have men drooling after me in Viziman bars?”

Yennefer eyes him. “Because you _are_ a man,” she says bluntly. “Because there’s no expectation that you’re there for the taking.”

Jaskier pauses, thinks. “I’m human, though,” he says. “You’re not. If someone wants to… _take_ me, in whatever way, they can – I’ll be honest, I’m not going to put up much of a fight. You? You, they’d have a _battle_ on their hands.”

Yennefer must be hearing things. Either that or she’s drunk significantly more than she thought she had, because there’s a note in his voice that almost sounds _admiring_. She pushes her empty glass towards Jaskier, looks pointedly at the bottle. “Are you really telling me that you can’t fight?” she asks as he leans forward and starts to pour – and all of a sudden, she realises that that’s a question that skates very, _very_ close to the topic that they’re both avoiding. Why would he know how to fight? Why would she _assume_ that he knows how to fight?

Her heart thuds harder against her ribs.

If Jaskier realises, however, he doesn’t show it. “I really am,” he answers, pushing her glass back towards her and topping up his own. “I mean, I learned to fence as a youth. And I’ve been involved in more bar fights than I can count! But the fencing’s just the kind of thing you just sort of have to learn when you’re a wayward noble youth – you know, it’s all for show. Most of the time, the rapiers aren’t even _sharp_.”

“And the bar fights?” Yennefer asks, amusement seeping into her discomfort.

Jaskier shrugs. “They’re surprisingly easy to wriggle out of,” he says. “Someone throws a punch at you. Avoid it as much as you can, then just _happen_ to stumble into someone else, ideally someone big and mean – then _they_ start throwing punches, and before you know it, the two pugilistic fuckers are whaling on each other, and I’m out the door.” He drinks, long and fast, and Yennefer finds herself watching the movement of his throat, the bob of his oh-so-valuable voicebox. “And then,” he says, a little quieter, a little more cautious, “of course, sometimes I wouldn’t have to worry. Sometimes I’d have someone there to… grab me by the scruff of my neck and haul me out of danger.” He smiles, but it’s flat. “Like a misbehaving kitten.”

Silence hovers between them, broken by the racket of the market, the chatter of the bar’s other patrons, the click of coins into the barman’s hands.

Yennefer remembers the first time she met Jaskier in that borrowed house in Rinde, blood spilling from his lips, unable to hold himself upright, weak and voiceless, so close to death.

She remembers a lot of things.

Jaskier coughs, downs the rest of his glass in one long gulp. “What do you say,” he says, grabbing for the bottle, “that we get really, _really_ drunk?”

Yennefer tosses back the wine left in her glass, practically snatches the bottle out of his hand. “I’d say,” she answers, a smirk twitching her lips, “that we’re going to need more wine. And there’s probably not much point in getting the good stuff.”

Jaskier barks a laugh. “A woman after my own heart,” he says, and signals to the barman. “I happen to know that the house red here is, while nowhere near as good as a fifty-seven Est Est, pretty damn drinkable. More importantly, it comes by the litre.”

“Let’s get two,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier snorts, then looks up as the barman appears at their side. “Two litres of the house red, please,” he says, beaming. “And do you still do those platters? You know, the ones of local cheese and meats?”

“We do,” the barman answers, nodding. “And we’ve had a fresh shipment in today – our suppliers are here for the market, of course, and if you wish to purchase more, I’d be happy to point you in their direction. I have a lovely soft blue cheese from the Entwine valley just to the north of here, and, although I know it’s not exactly _local_ , there’s a crate of Kaedwenian smoked pork that will pair _excellently_ with the house red.”

“Sounds perfect,” Jaskier says. “With some pickles – and that fruit chutney?”

Yennefer thinks that the barman looks vaguely offended that that’s even a question. “Of _course_ , sir,” he says. “And the finest bread Vizima has to offer.”

“That’ll do nicely,” Jaskier says, and smiles even wider.

Yennefer studies him as the barman disappears. “How much time exactly do you spend in this bar?” she asks, intrigued.

Jaskier shrugs. “Enough,” he says, and there’s a whisper of something in his expression that Yennefer can’t identify. It vanishes quickly enough, though, and Jaskier raises his glass to her, that cheery smile firmly back in place. “To you, Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he says, all courtly airs and graces until his expression crumples into a smirk. “And to spending this beautiful summer afternoon getting _completely_ trollied.”

Yennefer hesitates for a moment, then leans forward, taps her glass against his. The chime of glass against glass sings in the summer breeze. “And to you, Jaskier,” she says. “And your inevitable hangover.”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow. “You’ll be sharing it with me if we get through two litres of wine,” he points out.

Yennefer snorts. “I’m a sorceress of Aretuza,” she says, sipping the last of the Est Est from her glass. “You really think I can’t cure a simple hangover?”

Jaskier’s eyes flash, startlingly eager. “Oh, now _that’s_ a use for your wicked sorceress powers I’d never thought of!” he says, fingers long and slender around the stem of his glass. “Curing hangovers. What I wouldn’t have given to have _that_ magical ability when I was at Oxenfurt – tutorials first thing in the morning would have gone a lot smoother, I’ll give you that.”

“It was a useful skill to have at Aretuza, too, especially the mornings that we had lessons on potion-making,” Yennefer says, and the words are out of her mouth before she really realises what she’s saying. She’s talking to a… _bard_ , an irritating, snide little chit of a man whose sole redeeming feature is his good taste in wine – and here she is, spilling her guts about _Aretuza_ , of all places. For the briefest of moments, she wonders if she’s under some kind of curse, a malicious enchantment—maybe he put something in the bottle of Est Est?—but then she pauses, realises that’s ridiculous, and goes to take a sip from her glass.

Except there’s nothing _in_ her glass.

Yennefer twists around in her chair to see if the barman is on his way back. She needs more wine.

“I can imagine,” Jaskier says, blithely unaware of the turmoil going on inside Yennefer’s head. “I mean, it was bad enough having to listen to Professor Allendorf wittering on about triangles in a crack-of-dawn geometry tutorial that I hadn’t done the work for. I can only imagine how bad eye of newt, tongue of bat, and…” He trails off, snorts into his wine. “… balls of oaf would be.”

“On occasion, pungent,” Yennefer answers, watching as the barman brings two large carafes to their table, along with the promised platter of meats and cheese.

“Speaking of,” Jaskier says under his breath, waving his hand in front of his nose none-too-subtly as the barman retreats. “He wasn’t kidding about the blue cheese, was he?”

Yennefer smirks, pours herself a fresh glass from the nearest carafe. “Try not to vomit into the wine like you did in your geometry lessons,” she says, mockingly scathing.

“ _Actually_ ,” Jaskier stresses, watching with a faintly disturbed furrow to his brow as Yennefer goes straight for the admittedly very blue cheese, “I only ever threw up in rhetoric, and that was mainly because my tutorial partner kept sneaking pieces of fermented herring out of his pocket and eating them.” His nose wrinkles, and he finishes off his glass, pours himself another. “Another unpleasant smell. Not to put too fine a point on it, Yennefer, but I _am_ experiencing flashbacks right now.”

“It’s cheese, not fish,” Yennefer observes.

Jaskier waves a hand. “Same difference.”

“You’re being melodramatic.”

“I’m a _bard_ ,” he extemporises grandly. “Dramatic by nature.”

Yennefer thinks that Jaskier is a lot of things by nature. Dramatic, yes, and extravagant. Funny, even though she’d never admit it to his face. Clearly observant, by how much of her rejection of her blond admirer he seems to have memorised, and subtle, too, when he wants to be, given that she didn’t notice him until he was right behind her. There’s a flush high on his cheekbones from the wine and the heat, and his untidy dark hair is sticking to his scalp, slick with sweat. He’s foregone a doublet—understandable given the heat, if a little risque—and he sits across from her in just his shirt sleeves, the neck open enough that a patch of thick, curling chest hair is visible in the soft afternoon light.

Yennefer smears a little of the fruit chutney onto her cheese, and eats it thoughtfully.

“So tell me,” Jaskier says, avoiding the blue cheese in favour of a hard, yellow block that crumbles when he slices it. “Aretuza. That’s the school for sorceresses, right?”

Yennefer pauses, takes a subtle sniff of the wine to see if it has that distinctive whiff of truth serum. When it just smells like wine, she nods. “Correct,” she says, taking a sip. “Why do you ask?”

“Good question,” Jaskier says, settling back, throwing one arm across the back of his chair. “I’ve been thinking about taking a new direction with my work, you know? Moving away from all the heroic tales of derring do – it gets a bit old after a while.” There’s a tightness in his lips, a blankness in his eyes, but it passes. “And, as it turns out, there aren’t actually that many songs about sorceresses – at least, not any particularly _flattering_ ones. I thought maybe I could fill that gap in the market.” His lips twitch in a smile Yennefer has a suspicion he doesn’t feel. “Maybe get myself a wealthy patron. You sorceresses rake it in, don’t you?”

Yennefer pauses. “You’re lying,” she says, and there’s a heaviness in her voice that she didn’t intend. “You’d never stop singing those tales, not if every sorceress on the Continent promised you their patronage.” – and she knows that they _both_ know she’s not just talking about his poetry.

Jaskier’s smile dips, just a little. “Well, yes,” he admits, reaching for his wine. “But you don’t have to be so _blunt_ about it.” His voice is still light, still cheery, but there’s the faintest whisper of hurt there that, for some reason, Yennefer finds she doesn’t like hearing.

An echoing hurt sits small and painful in her own heart.

Yennefer looks away from Jaskier, looks out across the square. There’s a butcher close enough to the open front of the bar that she can make out the red and white stripes of his apron, the smear of blood across the back of his hand. He’s having a not-so-quiet argument with a woman that Yennefer assumes is a regular customer, haggling over the price of a haunch of venison. Their voices spiral up through the chaos of the market, his bass a counterpoint to her alto.

“Aretuza,” Yennefer says, her attention still fixed on the butcher and his customer, “is a… strange place.”

Jaskier looks up. “Strange how?”

“It isn’t all it’s supposed to be,” Yennefer answers, struggling to find the words. “It’s said that it’s a school, a haven for those unfortunate little girls who demonstrate some degree of magical talent. A place where they can be trained and moulded to be the next generation of sorceresses, in the comfort and companionship provided by others like them. A sisterhood, you might say, within the Brotherhood.”

“And it isn’t that?”

Yennefer snorts. “We didn’t exactly spend our free time braiding each other’s hair,” she says, a little wry.

“So no scantily-clad magical pillow-fights?” Jaskier asks, a teasing smile twitching his lips. “My teenage self is _devastated_.”

“Aretuza does not exist to provide fuel for your _masturbatory fantasies_ , bard,” Yennefer says, as icy as the alcohol allows. “It trains the very best sorcerers, and their power stretches across the Northern Realms. No court is untouched by Aretuza, no mountain holdfast or desert stronghold. Its influence is more wide-reaching than you could _possibly_ imagine.”

Jaskier looks into his glass, drinks deep. “Nothing that wouldn’t be improved by a scantily-clad pillow fight,” he observes – and his voice is almost _tentative_. Not on the surface, of course, no, the surface is brash and crass and everything else that a wandering womanising bard is expected to be – but there, beneath that. He’s testing the waters, Yennefer realises. He’s seeing how far he can push, how far she’ll _let_ him push.

Yennefer sips her wine. “I suppose,” she says, somewhat to her own surprise, “a good pillow-fight might have made some of them loosen the fuck up.”

Glass already raised to his lips, Jaskier splutters in shock. Deep red wine splatters down the front of his shirt, immediately staining the dove-grey fabric, and he looks down at himself, makes a faint noise of distress. “Ah, bollocks,” he mutters, wiping wine off his hand onto his thigh, then looks back up at Yennefer, his forehead furrowed. He licks his lips, tongue pink and quick, then says, “Not to pry or anything, but… ‘loosen the fuck up’?”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Have you never heard the phrase?” She laughs a little. “I thought you were a wordsmith, bard. A master of language.”

“I’ve heard it before,” Jaskier says, futilely patting at his stained shirt with a handkerchief he pulled out of his pocket. “Just not in relation to… well, you know. The Brotherhood of Sorcerers.”

Yennefer scoffs, then, because she’s feeling a little generous and more than a little tipsy, flicks a fingertip and erases the wine stains from Jaskier’s shirt. “That’s just a name,” she says, then empties her glass and reaches forward to top herself up. “A better description would be a bunch of narcissistic arseholes who are _incapable_ of listening to decent advice.” She pauses for a second, thinks back over what she’s just said, then peers into her wineglass again. Still no acrid-bitter tang of truth serum, which unfortunately seems to suggest that she’s just… getting drunk.

Then again, that was her plan for the afternoon.

“Narcissistic arseholes,” Jaskier repeats, absently plucking at his shirt.

Yennefer hums, and drinks deeper. “Aretuza teaches you to think a certain way,” she says, her gaze skating past Jaskier, out to the marketplace, to the bustle of humanity. “To prioritise certain things, to dismiss others. We are trained to view the world through a very specific lens – which, well.” She pauses, laughs shortly. “You were trained at Oxenfurt, bard. You know what academia is like.”

Jaskier’s head tilts to one side, his eyes narrowing. “I somehow don’t think that Oxenfurt is quite the same.”

“Indulge me,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier studies her for a moment longer, frowning. “Oxenfurt academia is… petty,” he says eventually. “Backstabbing. Self-interested. More concerned with the minutiae of ancient manuscripts than anything… _real_.”

Yennefer laughs, brighter and more genuine than she’s laughed in weeks. She drinks again, the wine spilling down her throat like it’s water, then settles her glass on the tabletop and takes a piece of the crumbly yellow cheese. “A few years ago,” she says, “I was in Kaedwen – I can’t remember exactly why. It might have been while I was looking for powdered manticore bone, it’s _surprisingly_ difficult to find nowadays. Probably something to do with fucking _witchers_ killing off all the manticores.” A shudder runs through her, unbidden, and she wolfs down the cheese, finishes it with a gulp of wine. “I was in Kaedwen,” she repeats. “And I ran into Sabrina – Sabrina Glevissig, do you know her?”

“Not personally,” Jaskier says slowly, his wineglass cradled against his stomach. “She’s the Kaedwenian court mage, right?”

Yennefer nods. “One of my contemporaries at Aretuza,” she says, then gives in to instinct and sneers a little. “I believe the most fitting phrase would be _teacher’s pet_. Which gave her a great deal of self-confidence, of course, being praised to the gods by each and every one of our tutors, but also means that she lacks much by way of… _creativity_.”

Jaskier sips meditatively from his glass. “I hate to think what might constitute ‘creativity’ in a sorceress,” he muses, then grabs for one of the small, neatly-plaited bread rolls that the barman brought with their platter. His movements are a little clumsy, Yennefer notices, his fingers a little uncoordinated. His glass wobbles a little when he sets it down on the table.

Yennefer snorts, another of those inelegant sounds that she can’t quite seem to stop herself making today. It’ll be the wine. “Nothing Sabrina has,” she says dismissively. “I ran into her in Kaedwen, at a party some noble prick seemed determined to try to turn into an orgy.” Jaskier makes a startled noise at that, but Yennefer doesn’t pause. “She told me about some minor issue King Henselt was having, a boundary dispute in the south, I think. Made more complicated by typical male pride, of course. Two fucking bulls, unable to back down. The logical thing to do—or, at least, the solution that would cost least in both money and lives—was to go behind Henselt’s back and _negotiate_ – gods, it’s only _Aedirn_ , it’s not like King Virfuril was ever particularly difficult to placate. Sabrina could have portalled in, pushed her tits into his face, and he would have done whatever she wanted him to. Which I _told_ her – but did she listen? Did she fuck.” She rolls her eyes, snags her glass, drinks. “So instead of a neat, tidy solution that required a _minor_ amount of lateral thinking, Sabrina just… let Henselt do whatever the fuck he wanted. Because _of course_ she did, she’s too fucking _straightlaced_ to do anything—”

“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.”

Yennefer pauses. “What?”

Jaskier’s just sort of _staring_ at her. “Kaedwen,” he says slowly, “and Aedirn. In the reign of King Virfuril, which, I’d like to point out, ended _more_ than a few years ago. Was this—” He breaks off, thinks for a minute. “—around the late twelve-forties, by any chance?”

Yennefer considers that for a second. “I suppose so,” she says slowly. “Why?”

“The annexation of the Pontar Valley,” Jaskier says flatly. “You’re talking about King Henselt’s attempted annexation of the Pontar Valley, in northern Aedirn.”

“And?”

“ _And?_ ” Jaskier echoes, a little shrill. “Yennefer, that war lasted _three years_. Thousands of soldiers died, it was _chaos!_ Redania closed its fucking borders – I got stuck in Oxenfurt for eight months. It was so crazy in Kaedwen that Geralt couldn’t get out of Kaer Morhen until the beginning of the summer! And you’re sitting here telling me that, what? It’s all because one of your sorceress friends refused to listen to your advice at an… _orgy?_ ”

“It didn’t actually turn into an orgy,” Yennefer points out. “The host just _wanted_ it to turn into an orgy.”

Jaskier sighs. “You do realise that that doesn’t make it better.”

Yennefer shrugs, sips her wine. “I wasn’t involved in the conflict,” she says. “I was in… Skellige, I think. Or Cidaris, it might have been Cidaris.”

“Cidaris,” Jaskier says, nodding. “Right.” He’s still staring at her, forehead furrowed, expression somewhere between astonished and exasperated – but then his shoulders slump and he shakes his head, reaches for his glass. He downs whatever’s left, pours himself another and fills Yennefer’s glass virtually to the brim. When he sits back, there’s a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I always thought,” he says, running a fingertip around the wine-slick brim of his glass, “that you sorceresses were these mighty, powerful, _godlike_ beings. All statecraft and forging the future of the Continent, shaping the way us mere mortals live our short little lives with an eye to some… _grand design_ , I suppose.” He snorts. “What you’re telling me is that you’re more interested in one-upping your old schoolmate than you are with a war that claimed thousands of lives.”

“Do you have a problem with that?” Yennefer asks, arching an eyebrow.

Jaskier sighs. “You know, I probably should do,” he says, taking a drink. “But for some reason, it just makes your whole…” He trails off, waves a hand non-specifically in her direction. “… _thing_ make a lot more sense.” He snorts. “Makes you a lot more human, actually.”

Yennefer glares at him. “Take that back.”

Jaskier laughs, bright and pealing. His lips are stained berry-red from the wine, his tongue a dark pink, and the open neck of his shirt is gaping wider, disturbed by the frankly inefficient way he tried to get the wine stains out of the soft embroidered fabric. “It’s oddly reassuring, actually,” he says, his smile more than a little wicked. “We’ve all got that one colleague who we just want to _throttle_. Nice to know that the mighty Yennefer of Vengerberg has the same problem.”

Yennefer drinks slowly. “You want to throttle your fellow bards?” she asks, amused.

“Not all of them,” Jaskier answers, raising his glass to his lips. “Some of them. A few.” He drinks, then pulls a face. “Okay, just one. Valdo Marx. Who, by the way, is a fucking _hack_ who steals ideas and has his head so far up his own arse that I’m pretty sure he hasn’t seen daylight in twenty years.” Yennefer blinks, because there’s a viciousness in his voice that she really didn’t expect. Jaskier’s lips twist in an expression that Yennefer can only really describe as a sneer, and he snorts. “That was my first djinn-wish, actually, all those years ago in Rinde – for Valdo _fucking_ Marx to drop dead. And, if I’m honest, I’m still pretty disappointed that the wishes turned out not to be mine! That way, I wouldn’t have to worry that my fucking _songbook_ is going to get stolen every time I’m in Cidaris – honestly, I swear, I was there a few years ago and left my bags in a random inn in the capital, went to get a drink, and when I got back my room had been broken into and what was missing?” He pauses, wrinkles his nose. “Admittedly, also a full purse and three of my gold rings. But the _songbook_ is the important thing.”

“Sure,” Yennefer says, and sips her wine.

Jaskier pauses. “I think I’ve got a little off-topic here,” he says, and drinks. He’s not slurring, exactly, neither of them are, but there’s a… _richness_ in his voice that wasn’t there before, an ease, a pliability that, for some reason, feels strangely comforting. “The point is, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, gesturing with his glass, “that I have my own professional nemesis. So it’s oddly reassuring that you mighty sorceresses are just as petty as I am.”

“We’re not _mighty_ ,” Yennefer says, shaking her head. “We’re just people.”

Jaskier snorts. “You’re insanely beautiful,” he says, ticking the list off on his fingers. “You haven’t aged a day in all the years since I met you. You can bring people back from the brink of death – I’m very literally living proof of that. You associate with lawmakers, with _king_ makers. You are… just incredible, _unbelievably_ so.” He studies her for a moment, and there’s something dark and intense in his eyes. “And yet here you are,” he says, thoughtful, pausing. “Sitting in a bar in Vizima, drinking the house red and eating incredibly smelly blue cheese. With me.”

A strange warmth settles low in Yennefer’s belly. Instead of examining it, she drinks. “I’m not sure why this is so surprising to you, bard,” she says, cocking an eyebrow. “You’ve spent most of your life building a very flawed man into the White Wolf, into a _legend_ – you _know_ how inaccurate stories are, how little truth there is in rumour and whispers.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Geralt’s one thing,” he says. “I’ve seen him with mud in his hair and guts caked on his shoes. Even a witcher isn’t particularly _legendary_ stinking of viscera, but—” Abruptly, he stops, a little wide-eyed, and raises his glass to his lips. “Ah, shit,” he says, alcohol thick in his voice, and drinks.

Yennefer’s heart twists in her chest, so painful that for a second she can barely breathe.

For a long moment, they sit there in silence.

“You didn’t answer the question before,” Yennefer says, studying the blood-red wine in her glass. “When I asked you why you came to me with a bottle of Est Est. You didn’t answer.”

Jaskier’s smile is lopsided. “You noticed that, did you?” he asks, then nods, drinks deeply. “Of course you noticed.” He leans forward, reaches for a refill, finishes off the first carafe in the process. “Well, you know why.”

“I don’t think I do,” Yennefer answers.

His lips tighten. “Are you really going to make me say it?”

“I wouldn’t have come to you,” Yennefer says, and abruptly knows that it’s true. “If I’d seen you sitting in a bar by yourself, drinking alone, I wouldn’t have come to you.” Her gut clenches. It’s guilt, maybe. Regret. “So no, I don’t know why you came to speak to me,” she says quietly. “Because I wouldn’t have done the same.”

Jaskier sighs, sits back. He drinks slowly, doesn’t meet her gaze. “Commiseration, I suppose,” he says eventually, studying his hands. “We have something in common, after all.” He pauses. “Or some _one_.”

Yennefer feels her warm, soft tipsiness start to turn a little sour.

Jaskier’s lips twist. “Not to ruin the mood or anything,” he mutters, then drags his gaze up from his wine, catches her eye. “Sorry.”

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Actually, it’s probably _definitely_ the alcohol, because Yennefer has spent most of the year or so it’s been since that fucking disaster in King Niedamir’s mountains deliberately not thinking about – him. No, fuck that, not thinking about _Geralt_ , about harsh words and pretty lies and all the pain that boiled up in her heart, boiled over and left them all scorched to the bone. But now here she is, sitting in a bar in Vizima with Geralt’s bard—with _Jaskier_ —and she could lash out at him, that would be the easiest thing to do, she could push him away, snarl and scratch and bite.

Or.

Yennefer clears her throat, then figures that another mouthful of wine won’t hurt, and drinks. Jaskier just watches her, his eyes startlingly blue. “I heard what he said to you,” she says, then lets out a breath, forces her fingers to clench just a little less tight around the stem of her glass. “On the mountain.”

Jaskier snorts softly, and Yennefer watches as a little tension seeps out of his shoulders. “Shouted, really,” he says. “And I heard what he said to you.”

It’s Yennefer’s turn to laugh. “What he was _forced_ to say,” she corrects. “If it weren’t for Borch, I don’t think he would have ever told me.”

Jaskier huffs a quiet breath. “Full of emotional intelligence, our witcher.”

“Ours,” Yennefer echoes, then hides a bitter smile in her wine. “Not any more.”

A muscle jumps in Jaskier’s jaw. “No,” he says. “No, I suppose not.”

Geralt was, though, Yennefer knows. Theirs. Hers, yes, but Jaskier’s, too. She never knew the specifics of their relationship, never knew for sure what they were to each other—friends just helping each other out, devoted lovers, long-suffering life-partners—but she knew that when Geralt wasn’t in her bed, nine times out of ten he was in Jaskier’s instead. It’s why they sniped at each other, of course, why they couldn’t bear to be in the same room. Jealousy, hot and potent, because surely one day Geralt would choose, wouldn’t he? One day he would choose between them, and neither of them could bear the thought of losing him.

It all seems a little redundant now.

Jaskier’s watching her over the rim of his glass. His eyes shine blue in the warm light of Vizima’s scorching afternoon, unreadable.

“What a fucking _arsehole_ ,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier slumps back in his chair, barks a laugh. “I’ll drink to that,” he says, raises his glass – and it feels like the most natural thing in the world for Yennefer to raise hers in return. They drink together, and, okay, they’ve been doing that this whole time, powering through the wine set out on the table between them, but for some reason this feels a little different. “I had second thoughts, you know,” Jaskier says, his lips wine-wet. “About coming over,” he clarifies at her quizzical look. “I sat back in the corner for a good half an hour or so after I noticed you. Thought about just leaving, figured that would probably be easier. I wouldn’t have to think about things I don’t want to think about, that way.” He snorts. “And I’d run less of a risk of getting turned into a frog,” he jokes, and Yennefer finds herself smiling in response. Jaskier pauses for a second, looking around the bar, fingers wrapped languid and loose around his glass. “I brought him here, once,” he says eventually.

“Geralt?” Yennefer asks, and the name is still sour in her mouth.

Jaskier nods. “It was the Artists’ Waltz, actually,” he says, a rueful twist to his lips. “A few years ago, before we met you. I didn’t even know he was in the area. I came down off the stage at the end of the competition—first place, thank you very much—and he was waiting for me, no swords, no potions, no monster blood. He said he’d heard I was competing, so he came to find me.” There’s a brightness in his eyes, gleaming and wet. “I brought him here, and we drank a lot of wine. I think he ate about four of those platters.” His jaw is tight. “It was a good day,” he says quietly, then laughs a little, raises an eyebrow. “And a good night, too.”

Yennefer breathes. “I only ever had the nights,” she says, the words harsh and bitter in the back of her throat. “We didn’t sit in bars and drink wine. We didn’t travel together, didn’t _live_ together. We met, and we fucked, and we went our separate ways.”

Jaskier’s smile is wry. “That doesn’t sound like _Geralt_ ,” he says, laden with sarcasm. “No communication? Only grunts and incredible sex? No, that’s not him _at all_.”

Despite the hurt in her heart, Yennefer finds herself laughing. “I’m not sure I ever said the sex was incredible.”

Jaskier gives her a knowing look. “Really?” he says. “Because, first, I know what sex with Geralt is like. Intense, overwhelming. Sometimes a little violent, if I’m honest – he’ll toss you up against the wall as easy as he’ll fuck you into the mattress. And second?” He smirks. “I’ve heard about the unicorn, Yennefer.”

Yennefer is a sorceress of Aretuza, known and respected across the Continent. She’s not going to sit here under that knowing, borderline lascivious expression – and _blush_. At least, she’s not just going to sit here and take it. “The unicorn,” she says, sipping her wine, “really wasn’t that special. Not comparatively.”

Jaskier blinks. “Comparatively?” he asks slowly. “What _exactly_ are you comparing with that having a sex on a _unicorn_ wasn’t special?”

“It wasn’t a real unicorn,” Yennefer points out.

There’s a light in Jaskier’s eyes, bright and intrigued, and a challenge in his voice. “Now who’s avoiding the question?”

Yennefer still feels the hurt that still twists her stomach, the heartbreak, if she were to be poetic about it – but she also feels the alcohol, warm and intoxicating in her veins, the heat of the summer air, the softness of the chiffon of her dress, the weight of the obsidian star that hangs around her neck. “That night, I only orgasmed once,” she says, as clean and cool and calm as she can manage. “We met in the forest in Temeria one Belleteyn, fucked on a bed of bluebells.” Yennefer remembers the smell of the broken flower stems, the whisper of the stream they lay beside, the roughness of Geralt’s calloused hands and the tenderness of his touch. The taste of ale on his lips, the gleam of his eyes in the darkness. She shifts a little, sips her wine. “He made me come five times,” she says. “ _That_ was special.”

“Five times?” Jaskier echoes, incredulous. “Gods, I wish I’d been born a woman. _Five?_ ”

Yennefer studies him for a moment, the dark hair, the bright eyes, and then thinks about his biting words, his unwavering loyalty. There’s a sweep to his cheekbones, a softness to his lips, and he’s not a classical beauty, not in any straightforward sense, but he’s striking, nonetheless. And he can deal with, as he put it, being tossed up against a wall.

All of a sudden, Yennefer can’t quite hold back a laugh.

Jaskier narrows his eyes at her. “What?”

“If you _had_ been born a woman,” she says, her lips twitching a smile, “you would almost be my sister.”

Jaskier just stares at her for a second, then barks a laugh. “From different fathers, maybe,” he says, “but you’re not wrong.” He leans forward, pulls the carafe towards himself, then smiles broadly, looks up at Yennefer. “What you’re saying,” he continues, eyebrow cocked, “is that Geralt has a _type_.”

Yennefer holds out her glass, watches as he tops her up. “You flatter yourself, bard,” she says, as arch as she can manage, then delicately sips her wine. “Do you _really_ think that you’re on a par with me?” It could be cruel, she knows. It could be biting and bitter and vicious – and, really, not so long ago it _would_ have been biting and bitter and vicious. But now she sits here in this bar in Vizima, drenched in the midsummer heat, surrounded by the clamour from the market, the taste of wine and cheese slicked across her tongue, and there’s a strange sort of affection growing in her heart.

Affection?

Jaskier leaps to his feet, interrupting her thoughts, and bows to her deeply, brandishing his wineglass in midair. “Of _course_ not, my lady,” he dramatises, his voice full of the rich pageantry of the royal courts he sings in. “I would never _dare_ impune your honour in such a manner, never _dare_ suggest that a humble bard such as myself would even be fit to _besmirch_ the hem of your lovely gown with my base gaze.” He looks up at her from the depths of his bow, flashes her a smile that she can only really characterise as wicked. “But you were the one who brought it up.”

Yennefer hides her smile in her wine. “I said that you would almost look like me if you were a woman,” she points out. “As far as I can tell—and, if you remember from our first meeting, I do have _some_ hands-on experience in the matter—you’re not a woman.”

Jaskier pulls a face, sits down heavily in his chair. “Yes, thanks for that,” he says. “Always how I like to be introduced to a beautiful woman: a dagger at my throat and a hand on my cock.”

“I don’t want to know about your fetishes, bard.”

“Says you, Lady _Geralt Made Me Come Five Times_.”

Yennefer laughs. “Not my official title, I hope,” she says. “And I’m fairly sure the only reason you’re complaining is because you’re jealous.”

Jaskier sighs, and drinks. “I would make a wonderful woman, it’s true,” he says, almost thoughtfully. “Think of the _fashion_.” His eyes go almost comically wide and he touches his throat, runs his fingers over the swell of his larynx. “I could sing _soprano_. Oh, fuck, my high notes would be _incredible!_ ”

“ _That’s_ what you’re interested in?” Yennefer asks, amused. “I thought it was the orgasms.”

Jaskier waves a hand. “I can orgasm just fine as I am,” he says. “Okay, maybe not five times in one night – but there’s so many songs that I can’t sing right now because they’re not written for my voice! And yeah, I can sing them down the octave, sure, but it’s not the same, it’s not the _original_.” He eyes her speculatively. “Know any spells that would give me the range to sing _The Nocturnal Queen_ for a day or so?”

“I’m not wasting my magic on your musical whims, Jaskier,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier doesn’t seem particularly disappointed. “Pity,” he says. “Could have been fun.” He drinks his wine, then pulls the platter towards him. “I think I’m going to try this blue cheese,” he says, sounding more than a little sceptical about it. “If it kills me, I’d ask that you avenge my untimely death.”

There’s a pleasant fuzz in Yennefer’s head, a lightness that runs through her limbs, stretches to the ends of her fingertips, the tips of her toes. It’s just the wine, she knows it is, because by the looks of it they’re almost at the bottom of the second carafe which means that they’ve drunk _a lot_ – but at the same time, there’s something in her stomach that she can’t quite identify, something warm and private, unfurling like petals in the sun. She watches Jaskier as he nibbles suspiciously at the blue cheese, soft and oozing in the summer heat, smearing across his fingertips, and she thinks absently about him laid out in her borrowed bed in Rinde, eyes closed, body sprawled and limp, blood staining his lips, his chin, his shirt.

“You know what?” Jaskier says, licking grease off his fingers thoughtfully. “That’s actually not half bad. A bit strong for my tastes, but I’d still eat it.”

“High praise,” Yennefer says, arching one eyebrow.

Jaskier shrugs, retrieves a slice of pork, pops it into his mouth. His lips are stained with wine, red and dark, and he’s watching her with the particular thoughtfulness of the really very drunk. “I probably shouldn’t really be saying this,” he says, running his thumb along the rim of his glass, “but it wasn’t just the sex unicorn that Geralt told me about.”

Yennefer feels her cheeks flush. “Is that right?” she asks, and wonders whether it’s socially acceptable in Vizima to publicly thrash a misbehaving drunken bard.

Jaskier hums, and it’s such a strikingly Geralt thing to do that, for a second, it hurts Yennefer’s heart. “This was mainly when he was drunk, I’d like to point out,” Jaskier says, his gaze still fixed on her. “He wasn’t going around nattering about your sex life with anyone he happened to come across. But he let slip a few things, here and there.” A light dances in his eyes, mischievous and bright. “Such as, for instance, the fact that the _mighty_ Yennefer of Vengerberg, exalted sorceress and beauty of the age… hogs the covers.”

Yennefer laughs, surprised. “Excuse me?”

“You know, you hog the covers,” Jaskier says, clearly unable to control the smile that’s twitching his wine-stained lips. “After you’ve had your dozen orgasms or however many it is this time, you wrap yourself up in all the blankets and leave your unfortunate bed-partner _totally_ exposed.”

Now that Yennefer thinks about it, she does vaguely remember Geralt muttering something about Jaskier keeping to his own bedroll. There’s something oddly exposing about the fact that Jaskier knows that about her, something oddly vulnerable, and so she raises an eyebrow, shoots back, “At least I don’t snore.”

Jaskier splutters. “I do not snore!”

“According to Geralt, you do.”

“That _traitor_ ,” Jaskier cries, clearly outraged – but then he pauses, narrows his eyes, refocuses his attention on her. “At least I’m not _ticklish_.”

“At least I don’t moan so loud during sex I get kicked out of inns,” Yennefer answers.

“ _One time_ ,” Jaskier groans, then grins, full of challenge. “At least I don’t drool in my sleep.”

Yennefer pretends to wince. “Oh, you do.”

“I don’t leave half a face of makeup on the pillow every night,” Jaskier counters.

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Only when I forget to take it off,” she says, then bares her teeth in a smile. “I don’t bring my lute to bed.”

“It’s valuable!” Jaskier exclaims. “And when it’s cold, body heat stops the wood warping!” His voice is full of joy, full of camaraderie, full of drunken affection. “I don’t kick in my sleep.”

Something flashes in Yennefer’s heart, lightning-bright, piercing through the blur of the alcohol, the soft haze of the midsummer heat. “I don’t have nightmares,” she says before she can stop herself, meeting Jaskier’s gaze, seeing the laughter fade from his eyes. “I don’t wake in the night crying out in fear and pain.”

The smile that curls Jaskier’s lips is tiny and sad. “Yes, you do,” he says, more solemn than Yennefer’s ever heard him before.

Yennefer’s hand isn’t quite shaking when she raises her wineglass to her lips, but there’s a tremble to her fingers that wasn’t there before.

Jaskier huffs a soft laugh, reaches for his own drink. Yennefer’s almost pleased when she notices that his hands are just as unsteady as hers. “Geralt should really learn to keep his mouth shut, shouldn’t he?” he asks, then sips. “Very ironic, given how little he actually fucking talks.” He looks up at her, over the rim of his glass. “At least we have one thing in common, I guess.”

“More than one, I think,” Yennefer answers. She pauses for a second, then raises her glass across the table. Jaskier doesn’t hesitate, and their glasses touch with a sharp clink. “I have to say, I never thought that this would be how I’d spend my afternoon.”

Jaskier cocks his head. “In my delightful company?”

“ _Enjoying_ your delightful company,” Yennefer says, then blinks. It’s the wine, it must be.

Spots of colour flush high on Jaskier’s cheeks. “Why, Yennefer,” he says, sounding genuinely surprised. “I’m touched.” His lips twist. “Or is this just the wine talking?”

“Definitely the wine,” Yennefer answers, and drinks deeper.

The afternoon is shading into evening, now, the market quieting down, the cries of hawkers and buyers dulling to a soft roar. The smell is still there, fresh leather and butchers’ blood, but it’s fainter, overwhelmed by the cooler air gusting in off the lake, the alcohol of the wine in her hand, the rich, musky scent of the cheese on the platter between them. The chiffon of Yennefer’s dress swirls around her ankles, and she watches, absently interested, as goosebumps prick the skin of Jaskier’s arms. The bar is busying around them, more tables filling, the barman flitting between patrons with his hands full of glasses, carafes, platters – which is a little frustrating, to be honest, because he doesn’t notice that their glasses are empty. Jaskier spends a good half an hour trying to get his attention before Yennefer snorts a laugh, snaps her fingers, and sends a flash of sparks up into the air that has the barman scurrying over in seconds. They get another carafe, and they drink it, and then they get another – which _definitely_ isn’t a good idea, because it’s at that point that the evening starts to get a little hazy.

Yennefer has vague memories of Jaskier knocking the fourth carafe over, and then of getting lost somewhere in the winding back streets, and then of dipping her bare feet—where exactly did her shoes go?—in the cool waters of Lake Vizima. She remembers Jaskier sitting at her side on the dock, remembers him singing something that she can’t quite place, remembers the bright white dinner plate of the moon in the dark sky overhead.

It’s all a bit of a blur after that.

Yennefer wakes in an unfamiliar bed the next morning, her head throbbing and her mouth tasting like something crawled inside and died during the night. She lies there for a moment, slowly cataloguing the extent of her extremely self-inflicted injuries, then lets out a low breath, reaches for her Chaos and feels it soothing the headache away. Tissaia most likely wouldn’t approve, but, then again, Yennefer’s fairly sure that Tissaia de fucking Vries doesn’t approve of most of her life choices this far.

Someone’s snoring, and it isn’t her.

Yennefer crawls towards the edge of the bed, peers over the side of the mattress. Jaskier’s passed out on the floor, one arm thrown over his eyes, mouth open and shirt rucked up around his ribs, exposing a strip of pale stomach. He also _smells_ , that distinctive hangover smell of stale alcohol and musty sweat, and Yennefer wrinkles her nose. “Jaskier,” she says, and when he only makes a grumbling noise in response: “ _Bard_.”

Jaskier moves his arm, cracks one eye open. His first attempt at speech is completely incoherent, so he licks his lips, tries again. “I know what my wish is this time.” His voice is cracked and hoarse.

“Let me guess,” Yennefer says wryly. “You want me to fix your hangover?”

“Please,” Jaskier groans, and settles his arm back over his eyes.

“No,” Yennefer says, clambering out of bed. She’s silently glad that he’s currently incapable of movement because her head might be clear but she’s definitely not at her elegant best right now. She’s still wearing yesterday’s dress, a couple of flecks of red wine marring the sleeves and the hem, and, after a cursory search for her missing shoes, she shrugs and figures she’ll just borrow Jaskier’s boots. “Serves you right for trying to outdrink a sorceress.”

Jaskier makes a muffled little moan, and if it weren’t so entertaining, Yennefer would almost be sympathetic. “ _Yennefer_.”

Yennefer studies him for a moment, curled up on the floor next to his own bed, his hair a mess, his eyes screwed shut against the light of day. There are sweat stains under the armpits of his dove-grey shirt and his bare feet are crusted with dirt. Looks like she borrowed his boots last night, too. “Enjoy the hangover,” she says, raking her fingers through her black hair, casting a surreptitious glance at the pillow and seeing that, yes, she _has_ left half a face of makeup imprinted on the pillowcase.

“I fucking hate you,” Jaskier groans.

Yennefer laughs. “I’ll be in Redania in the autumn,” she says before she can think better of it, before she can let her bitterness catch up with her heart. “I assume you know where’s best to drink in Oxenfurt?”

“I know where’s most _dangerous_ to drink in Oxenfurt,” Jaskier responds, eyes still closed.

“The kind of places that sell red wine by the litre?”

Jaskier snorts. “Those kinds of places,” he agrees, then raises his arm, cracks an eye. “I’ll see you in Oxenfurt, Yennefer,” he says. “Now fuck off and let me sleep.”

Yennefer leaves him to his hangover.

The streets of Vizima are quiet this early in the morning, the sun yet to heat the stones to burning, the wind from the lake still curling smooth and cool around the street corners. A few of the locals make their way through the winding alleyways, a baker with a bag of flour slung over his shoulder, a woman carrying two baskets of freshly-picked rushes from the lakebed, and a messenger in the royal livery of Cintra trots by on the back of a black palfrey. People greet each other softly, almost as if they don’t want to break the quiet of the early morning. Footsteps echo in the narrow lanes.

Yennefer walks alone under the blue summer sky, dress billowing around her borrowed boots, hair whispering around her shoulders, and there’s a lightness in her step that wasn’t there yesterday.


	2. Chapter 2

**[PODFIC MOBILE STREAMING LINK | 01:21:51](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_%20pt2.mp3)**

[full podfic downloads available in chapter 7]

* * *

_two._

Sodden sits around Yennefer’s shoulders like a bloodsoaked cloak.

She hides, for a while, tucks herself away in a forgotten corner of the Continent and nurses herself back to health. Her hands are raw, her eyes bloody, her throat empty of any voice she once had, and for weeks she doesn’t see another human being – or another sorcerer, for that matter. She doesn’t know who survived the hill. She doesn’t know who made it out, and, while she hides, there’s a part of her that doesn’t _want_ to know.

Something was taken from her at Sodden, she thinks. She doesn’t know what, doesn’t know how, but she knows that there’s a hollow in her heart that Chaos can’t fix.

It’s winter when she drags herself out of her den, hands healed and eyes clear. The Continent feels different, now, somehow darker, and she sees the devastation of war in every town and every village she goes through: children with hunger in their eyes, stray dogs gnawing on stolen bones, fear and distrust in the faces of every innkeeper. There are burned patches in the woods, tracks beaten flat under the hammer of soldiers’ boots, freshly turned earth speaking of unmarked graves.

Yennefer sees it all without really taking it in.

Without really thinking about why, she goes to Aretuza. The reach of the war is less pronounced, here, and she watches the novices laugh in the school’s courtyards, watches the younger ones chase each other through the corridors, watches the older girls as they watch her pass with a glimmer of interest in their eyes. They don’t speak to her as she sweeps through the halls, though, don’t address her, don’t even meet her gaze, but she knows they know who she is. They know what she did on the hill at Sodden, and because of that they look at her like she’s somehow more than who she is, like she’s someone to be exalted and feared, all at once.

The knowledge fills her with a strange kind of bitterness.

There’s a private hall that none of the novices are allowed entry to, a hall that Yennefer remembers from her own time here as some kind of forbidden kingdom, but when she enters, now, it’s just a room. The walls are hung with ornate tapestries, a long table lined with carved chairs dominates most of the space, and armchairs are arranged in a rough arc around the hearth. Fragrant logs burn in the fireplace, tall wax candles drip artfully from sconces around the walls, and the bright, early stars shine in through high windows.

“ _Yennefer_.”

Triss rises from one of the chairs around the fire, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders and a look of pure relief in her eyes. She crosses to Yennefer in a handful of steps and pulls her into an embrace without another word. It’s been weeks since Yennefer touched another person, maybe even months, and her skin sings at the contact, bright and sparking. She wraps her arms around Triss, clings closer for just a second, then steels herself, steps away. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she says, studying Triss’ expression, the bruises of exhaustion under her eyes, the pallor of her skin.

Triss doesn’t ask where she’s been, doesn’t chastise her for her absence, doesn’t say anything, in fact, just takes her by the hand and leads her to the fire. Sabrina’s there, too, sitting in a wingback armchair with her feet curled up under her, and she nods to Yennefer as she sits, her eyes as tired as Triss’. “Welcome home,” she says, a lick of irony in her voice, and adjusts a crimson lambswool blanket over her knees. “We were starting to wonder if we should add your name to the list of the dead.”

Yennefer’s jaw tightens. “I needed to heal,” she says. “I came as soon as I could.”

“Of course you did,” Triss answers, shooting Sabrina a sharp glance.

Yennefer settles back in the chair Triss presses her into, the overstuffed cushions as enveloping as the womb she lost so long ago. “Is Tissaia here?” she asks. “I didn’t see her on my way in.”

“In her study,” Sabrina answers. “She usually joins us for dinner.” She shares a look with Triss, unreadable, then looks back to Yennefer. “You’ll find her changed, Yenna, after the hill.”

Yennefer breathes, unclaws her fingertips from where they’re dug into the arms of her chair. “I imagine all of us are,” she answers, and smiles a smile that she doesn’t feel.

Sabrina’s smile is an echo of her own. Her eyes are bright. “Very true,” she says, and Yennefer tries not to think about the blankness in those eyes, the mindlessness of her actions, the fervour of her body and her Chaos, separated from her mind.

“Why are you both here?” Yennefer asks, more to change the subject than anything else. “I would have thought that your kings would need you more than ever in these turbulent times.”

Sabrina snorts. “Henselt can wait his fucking turn,” she says, bitterness thick in her voice. “His first summons came only days after the battle – a rider on the battlefield while we were still burying our dead. For that, the prick can stew. I’ll return to Kaedwen when I want to, and if it isn’t soon enough for his liking, then he can get fucked.”

Triss’ lips curl in a quiet smile, and she shrugs under Yennefer’s gaze. “A similar story,” she says. “All the Northern Kingdoms are nervy, Yennefer, and their kings even more so. But sometimes the men must wait for us.”

Yennefer isn’t going to disagree with that.

Sabrina is watching her keenly, a sharp expression in her eyes. “Rumour has it,” she says, “that Nilfgaard is looking for your witcher, Yenna.”

Yennefer’s lips thin. “He isn’t mine,” she says shortly, then frowns. “Why would Nilfgaard be looking for a witcher?”

“Cirilla of Cintra is with him, apparently,” Triss answers, her voice thoughtful. “And Nilfgaard has been looking for her since Cintra fell.”

Yennefer’s frown deepens. “What does Nilfgaard want with the Cintran crown princess?”

“No one knows,” Sabrina answers, fingers tracing patterns in the crimson wool laid across her knees. “But the word is out across the Northern Kingdoms: Nilfgaard will pay handsomely for information leading to the capture of Geralt of Rivia.”

Yennefer digests this for a moment. The girl must be his Child Surprise—there’s no other reason why Geralt would suddenly decide to adopt a royal princess, even one on the run from Nilfgaard—and for a second a familiar bitterness rises in her throat, as thick and hot as bile – but it fades almost as quickly as it comes. There are other losses, other griefs in this world. She doesn’t have the energy to hate as much as she once did.

Blood, pouring from her eyes, her nose, slicking over her lips, dripping between her teeth.

“I doubt even the might of Nilfgaard will be able to track Geralt down if he doesn’t want to be found,” Triss says, watching Yennefer cautiously. “Especially during the winter – you know how remote Kaer Morhen is. The witchers’ Trail has killed more men than the witchers themselves over the years, so if he’s taken Cirilla there, which I would imagine he has, they’ll be safe until spring at the least.”

Yennefer isn’t concerned about Geralt’s safety, isn’t worried for him, isn’t troubled by the idea of him in danger. He’s a witcher. He can take care of himself.

Sabrina shifts in her chair, curls up a little closer. “Shame about the bard, though,” she says, sounding almost genuinely regretful. “A good singer, that one. One of Henselt’s favourites.”

A chill runs through Yennefer’s heart.

“What bard?” Triss asks.

“The _witcher’s_ bard,” Sabrina answers. Her gaze lingers on the fire for a long moment, the cracking wood, the dancing flames. “I can’t remember his name.”

Yennefer’s mouth is dry. “Jaskier,” she says, voice hollow. “His name is Jaskier.”

“Right,” Sabrina says, and glances over at Yennefer. “I have a… _friend_ in the Redanian secret service. Apparently the bard passes messages for them, from time to time. They lost contact with him a few weeks ago. As far as they can tell, he disappeared somewhere to the north of Vengerberg – taken by bounty hunters, so the rumour goes.”

Triss raises an eyebrow. “Does Philippa know you’re spying on her spies, Sabrina?”

Sabrina shrugs. “Not my problem if she can’t keep track of her operatives.”

“ ‘Taken’,” Yennefer interrupts, because there’s something that might almost be fear churning in her stomach, now, bitingly sharp. “Are you saying that they took the bard to sell him to Nilfgaard? For whatever information he can provide about Geralt?”

Sabrina eyes her. “Given Fringilla’s current fashion choices,” she says slowly, “it’s unlikely to be for his singing.”

The last time Yennefer saw Jaskier was in Novigrad, maybe six months ago. They spent a day drinking their way through the city’s bars and taverns, progressing from the finest sparkling wines to a mug of ale that Yennefer’s pretty sure something _actually_ died in – and, as usual, Yennefer woke the next morning to a pounding head and the sound of Jaskier’s surprisingly musical snoring from the floor next to her bed. It’s become a pattern, since that first afternoon in Vizima at midsummer, a habit that Yennefer would never admit she looks forward to.

She met him in a garden near the main port in Novigrad, all those months ago. He was lying out in the grass, hands behind his head, eyes closed, bright sunlight dancing across his cheekbones, his lips, his throat. He looked up at her footsteps, squinting into the sun, and the moment he recognised her, Yennefer remembers, his lips split in a grin, broad and inescapable. He bounded to his feet like a rabbit rushing through the grass in springtime, bounced to her side with all the sprightliness of a gangly, overeager fawn.

Jaskier, at the tender mercy of Nilfgaard.

“Yennefer?” Triss asks, concern thick in her voice.

Yennefer stands with a rush of skirts and a racing heart. “I have to go,” she says, short and tight.

“You only just got here!” Triss says, startled.

“I know,” Yennefer says, deliberately ignoring the dark knot of fear that’s forming in her heart.

Sabrina’s gaze is shuttered. “Running to rescue a _bard_ , Yenna?”

“It’s not about him,” Yennefer says, rolling her eyes. “If Nilfgaard gets the bard, Fringilla will break him with a _thought_. He knows everything about Geralt, travelled with him for years – which means that, if Fringilla knows what he knows, she’ll find the witcher, and then she’ll find the girl.” Yennefer bares her teeth in a bitter smile. “And I am _not_ about to let Fringilla get what she wants.”

Sabrina settles against the high back of her chair. “I can get behind that,” she says.

Triss is still watching Yennefer, her eyes a little narrowed. “You need to rest,” she says, a little softer. “I can see it in your eyes, Yennefer, in how you hold yourself. You’re not as strong as you want us to think.”

Yennefer bristles. “More than strong enough to deal with a band of _bounty hunters_ ,” she says flatly. “And it makes sense, Triss. If Fringilla gets her hands on him, the problem expands, becomes more complex. We don’t know the extent of her influence, and it will only cause _more_ chaos for all of us if the Northern Kingdoms become overrun by Nilfgaardian spies trying to figure out how to get to Kaer Morhen.” Triss’ expression is wavering into acceptance. Yennefer ploughs on. “On the other hand, if I can stop this before the bard ever falls into Nilfgaardian hands, then Fringilla and the Emperor will be as blind as they currently are.”

“And,” Sabrina adds, eyebrow raised, “you’ll be doing your pet witcher a favour, won’t you? By saving his friend?” She cocks her head. “I imagine that’s a nice little perk.”

Yennefer’s gaze is icy. “I’m thinking with more than my cunt right now, Sabrina,” she says. “You’d do well to do the same.”

Sabrina laughs, not seeming particularly offended. “Keep telling yourself that,” she says. “Maybe one day you’ll manage to make it convincing.”

“Yennefer,” Triss interrupts before Yennefer can lash out in response. “Are you sure?”

In Rinde, Yennefer saw Jaskier filthy and on the edge of broken, gagging on his own blood, choking for every breath. At Sodden, the air was thick with the stench of blood and shit and vomit, the stench of _death_ , and it seeped into her clothes, her hair, her eyelashes, her skin. She smelled it for days afterwards, for weeks, and now as she thinks about Jaskier, trapped and taken, bloody and broken once more, it’s like the air is rich with that stench all over again.

“I’m sure,” Yennefer says, reaches out, takes Triss’ hand. “I’ll come back, I promise.”

Triss nods, squeezes her hand in response. “I’ll hold you to that,” she says sternly. “Now go. Be safe. Save your bard, Yennefer.”

Yennefer doesn’t have it in her to correct the assumption.

The corridors of Aretuza echo to the snap of her heels, to the whisper of her breaths, to the pounding of her heart. She walks out of the school, forcing herself to calm, to flush the smell of death from her memory, to breathe, to _breathe_ – and as she breathes, she plans. She can’t just go to Vengerberg and start looking, that’s never going to work, not when she’s trying to find one man in all the mass of humanity – even if that man is a world-famous bard whose fashion choices tend towards the obscenely loud.

A world-famous bard who, apparently, moonlights as an operative for the Redanian secret service. _That’s_ something he’s never mentioned before.

Yennefer smiles a bitter, breaking smile, and opens a portal to Oxenfurt.

An hour with one of her old contacts in Oxenfurt gives her the name of a source in Demavend’s court, and, another portal later, she steps through to an overly-perfumed bedroom and a very surprised Aedirnian aide. Two hours, a few threats, and a startlingly large bribe later, she rides out of Vengerberg on a borrowed black stallion, snow thick on the ground beneath its hooves, the night thick and dark around her. She seeks out a trader in a small town eleven miles to the south, gets the name of an inn, a set of directions, and a meat pie, then she’s on the road again, following a narrow, overgrown trail through the woods that’s only known to a handful of locals. The trees blur out the stars, block out the moon, and she conjures a ball of fire in her palm to light her way.

Branches catch at her hair, scrape at her cheeks. She pulls her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and keeps going.

As the sun is rising, the trail opens out onto an isolated hamlet, little more than a few houses and a run-down waystation where she snatches a few hours of sleep before heading south once more. She finds the inn she’s looking for in the next village, along with an innkeeper who looks at her with suspicion before Yennefer opens her purse, at which point that suspicion changes to a guarded acceptance. “You’re in luck,” the innkeeper says, tucking the coins away in her pocket. “Mangle’s band passed through here just last night. They had two nags dragging a covered wagon, and they kept one guard on the wagon even when the rest of them were in here, drinking my best ale and trying to get out of paying for it.”

Yennefer frowns. “Who’s Mangle?”

“My husband calls him a bounty hunter,” the innkeeper says, folding her arms. “I call him a criminal. He’s got the bard you’re looking for.”

“How do you know I’m looking for a bard?” Yennefer asks sharply.

The innkeeper laughs. “You came from Vengerberg, right?” she asks. “From Edmund de Aldersberg – pimply fellow, wears too much perfume? Probably had to bribe him to get anything useful out of him?”

Yennefer blinks. “That’s right,” she says slowly.

The innkeeper’s smile is knowing. “How do you think Mangle and his boys knew where the bard was going to be?” she asks. “They’re petty criminals, they don’t know about Nilfgaardian imperial orders. But the reward is good money, and Edmund has expensive tastes.” She eyes Yennefer for a second, then flashes her a surprisingly keen smile. “I imagine, however, that when confronted with the risk of angering a sorceress of Aretuza, his natural cowardice won out.” She snorts. “And the bribe probably helped.”

Yennefer pauses. “I never told you my name,” she says.

The innkeeper shrugs. “You’re not difficult to identify, Yennefer of Vengerberg, especially in Aedirn.”

Yennefer eyes the woman. “You’re not just an innkeeper, are you?”

The innkeeper laughs. “Nowadays, that’s exactly what I am,” she answers, her smile easy and relaxed. “But you never really leave the intelligence corps, do you?” Her lips twist. “Plus, that poncy idiot is my brother, and he has a nasty habit of getting far too drunk at family reunions and blabbing about things he really shouldn’t blab about.” Her expression turns conspiratorial. “Then again,” she says, “he is a man. His foolishness is to be expected.”

Yennefer’s lips thin. “Why didn’t you do anything?” she asks, her eyes narrowed. “When you realised who they were, who they _had_ – why didn’t you do something?”

The innkeeper’s gaze hardens. “I have a husband and two children,” she says. “My daughter is five, my son is three. My husband braids flowers into their hair in the summer and sings them lullabies when the thunder wakes them in storm season.” Her eyes are as cold as the snow outside. “The men you’re looking for are to the south, my lady. The wagon will slow them down, so if you ride hard, you can catch them today, maybe tomorrow.”

“How many?” Yennefer asks.

“I counted seven, in addition to Mangle,” the innkeeper answers.

Yennefer nods. “Thank you,” she says, fishes another few marks out of her purse, hands them over. “For the information, and for your time.”

The innkeeper nods. “Much appreciated.”

Yennefer rides away from the inn, the air sharp and cold in her lungs, the sun high and bright in the sky overhead.

Eight men. Humans, presumably, and therefore easy to incapacitate, so that’s not so bad – but if they’re sponsored by one of the king’s aides, if this Mangle— _such_ an inventive name, she’s _so_ intimidated—is as well-connected as that suggests, then it gives her pause. She knows what magical baubles circulate on the black market, knows that, even without stolen Chaos, there are more than enough ways for eight trained killers to ruin her day. Apprehension shudders through her gut, colder than the winter wind, and for the first time since she left Aretuza she dares to catalogue the aches in her body, the tiredness behind her eyes, the barely imperceptible frailty in her connection to Chaos.

But then she remembers blood on Jaskier’s lips and that stench of death, of decay, of devastation.

Yennefer bares her teeth, hunkers low over her horse. She _will not_ let Fringilla win.

She rides through the day, and, just as evening is settling over the world, catches up to a little convoy, horses and men and one creaking, canvas-covered wagon. The gathering night settles around her black horse and her black cloak, hiding her as glibly as any concealment spell, and she trails behind the bounty hunters for a little while, watching, assessing. There are three men on horseback, riding with the easy swagger of the arrogant and the foolish, and another three on foot, two at the front of the wagon, one behind. That makes six, and a seventh sits up at the front, the horses’ reins in his hands, a bottle propped between his thighs. He’s whistling to himself, a tune that Yennefer vaguely recognises – and with an abrupt, stabbing jolt, she realises that it’s _Toss A Coin To Your Witcher_.

She takes a breath, steadies herself.

That only makes seven. The innkeeper said eight, which either means that she miscounted, or that there’s one more adversary that she can’t see – in the woods around the trail, perhaps, or maybe even in that covered wagon itself. The woods she can handle, but the wagon poses a bigger issue because, presumably, that’s where they’re holding Jaskier. If there’s someone in there with him, someone with a sword, a knife, even just a strong pair of hands, then—

No. She’s not going to think about that.

Yennefer extends her right hand, palm facing towards the wagon that rumbles along the road in front of her, and reaches for her Chaos.

She takes out the man walking behind the wagon first, reaches into his body and breaks his spinal column with a thought. He crumples to the ground, the sound of his falling body muffled by the creak and groan of the wagon, and Yennefer turns her attention to two of the horsemen, riding a little further back, snaps their necks and lowers them carefully so that they slump forward against their horses’ necks. The horses slow to a meander, falling back into the woods that line the road, and Yennefer takes a break, flexes her hand. The four remaining men don’t seem to have noticed that anything is wrong—they’re cocky, arrogant, smug, like all men—and she considers her strategy for a moment. The two on foot are easy enough to remove, a thought and a snap and they’re slipping under the wagon’s wheels, little more than bumps in the road, but the final rider is a problem: he’s alongside the wagon driver, the two apparently sharing whatever’s in that bottle – which, if Yennefer was feeling charitable, she’d imagine is why they haven’t noticed that all their comrades are dead.

But Yennefer can’t just slaughter them, because if there _is_ someone in the wagon with Jaskier, someone with a sword or a knife or a strong pair of hands, and that wagon comes to a stumbling halt, then, well, she knows what _she’d_ do in that situation.

Yennefer takes a breath, lowers her hand, and reaches for the wagon driver’s mind.

He’s a simple man, as it turns out, and he’s not expecting it: the thoughts of drink, money, and women are comprehensively crushed beneath the force of her will, and whatever he was saying to the horseman is cut short. Barely a heartbeat later, the horseman’s head spins on his neck and he collapses back-of-the-face-first into his horse’s mane. The horse seems unperturbed, and wanders off into the trees to graze on low-hanging leaves.

Yennefer twitches her stallion’s reins, and trots quietly up to the wagon.

The wagon driver is sitting unnaturally still, staring rigidly at the path in front of him, but, most importantly, he’s keeping the two tired, scrawny-looking horses in the wagon’s traces trotting steadily down the road. Yennefer pauses next to the wagon, her heart beating harder in her chest, and forces herself not to look back at the trail of corpses she’s left down the path behind them, broken necks, bodies snapped under the wagon’s wheels. The dead faces almost glow in the gloaming.

“So are you going to face me, witch?”

The voice comes from inside the wagon, harsh and abrasive, and for a second Yennefer’s too startled to breathe.

“So you know,” the voice continues, “I have a knife to the bard’s throat, and if I so much as _think_ that you’re trying to catch me with your magical snares, I will kill him. So stop the wagon and dismount your lovely black horse, then come round the back, open up the canvas, and say hello.”

Yennefer snarls, and does as she’s told.

The inside of the wagon is shadowy and dark, but there’s enough light to make out the two men hidden in the shadows. Jaskier is on his knees, bound hand and foot, a bag over his head, his formerly-bright clothes little more than filthy, matted shreds, and he must be gagged, given that he’s not currently filling the air with a steady stream of nervous complaints and heartfelt expletives. His chest is heaving, panic and fear, and he’s held upright by the hand fisted in the back of his shirt and the knife pressed to his throat. The other figure—Mangle, Yennefer is assuming from the, well, mangled state of his face—is crouched behind Jaskier, most of his body hidden behind his hostage. He grins at Yennefer, a manic look in his eyes. “Did you _really_ think that I wouldn’t notice you killing my entire team?”

Yennefer shrugs. “ _They_ didn’t seem to notice.” She cocks an eyebrow. “Mangle, I presume?”

“You’ve done your research,” Mangle answers, sounding vaguely annoyed by that. “So what’s the situation here, witch? Want to split the bounty? You get me safely to Nilfgaard and I’ll cut you in. Say, twenty-five, seventy-five?”

“I’m here for the bard,” Yennefer answers. “Give him to me, and maybe I’ll let you scurry away into the woods like the rat you are.”

“Ah, a _rescue mission_ ,” Mangle answers. “How dramatic. I don’t suppose I can convince you to change your mind? Because I have to say, I don’t think—”

Except Yennefer stops listening at that point. She’s watching the razor-sharp edge of the knife in Mangle’s hand, watching it play across Jaskier’s bare throat – and at that exact moment, as Mangle starts to monologue about how _he’s not getting out of this alive, witch_ , the blade of the knife slips upwards, leaves that arc of pale, exposed skin, and presses just for a fraction of a heartbeat to the thick, rough fabric of the burlap sack that covers Jaskier’s face.

Yennefer lashes out, her hand flinging up and fingers crunching into a claw. Mangle’s eyes flash, his lips curl into a snarl, and even as his neck is snapping he’s dragging that knife back, ripping a ragged gash across the soft, smooth flesh of Jaskier’s throat – except it _doesn’t_ rip a gash into Jaskier’s throat, because the blade catches in the burlap, catches and cuts and _stops_. Mangle teeters backwards as Yennefer lunges forwards, and she grabs the knife before it can slip out of his limp fingers, steadies Jaskier as his captor collapses in a heap, eyes rolled back in his head, very much dead.

Jaskier makes a muffled sound, shot with pain, and for a second Yennefer’s heart thuds so loud she can barely breathe.

She crashes to her knees, drops the knife, grabs for Jaskier’s throat and expects her hands to come away soaked in red. She almost vomits with unexpected relief when she sees that it’s fine, _he’s_ fine, it’s just that the knife ripped through the burlap enough to catch his skin, just a little, just enough to cut but not enough to kill. “Fuck,” she says, heartfelt and heavy, then pulls the bag off his head and tosses it to the side.

Jaskier is battered and bloody, a bruise blossomed dark and black around his right eye, a ragged cut dug across his forehead. His lips are split and chapped where they stretch around the gag in his mouth, his chin is covered in at least a week’s worth of messy beard, and there’s a bruise on his cheek that bears the clear impression of a heavy signet ring. His hair is thick with sweat and grease, his nose is broken, but his eyes are blue and clear and staring at Yennefer with so much fucking _relief_ that she doesn’t quite know what to do. He tries to say something around the gag that she’s pretty sure is her name, and Yennefer realises that she’s frozen, one hand pressed to the shallow cut in his throat, the fingertips of the other just barely brushing his bruised cheek.

It’s almost _tender_.

Yennefer shakes herself, rips the gag out from between Jaskier’s teeth. “You okay?” she asks as she reaches for Mangle’s knife, turns to the ropes around Jaskier’s wrists and ankles.

“As okay as I can be,” Jaskier says in a voice that’s shaky and hoarse from, Yennefer is somehow unerringly sure, screaming. “Given the circumstances.” The knife slices through the ropes at his wrists and he immediately reaches for his throat, prods cautiously at his wound. “Well, _this_ is going to leave a scar,” he says, the cheeriness in his voice so unbearably false. “But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? Scars are sexy, I’m reliably informed.” The rope around his ankles snaps and he lets out a sharp cry, winces as he tries to shift his legs. “ _Ow_. I hate to say it, but I might have some issues walking. These _beasts_ haven’t exactly been letting me get much exercise. Actually, if you’re interested, I’ve been tied up in this wagon for at least a week now – although, I’ll give them this much, they _did_ let me out to relieve myself from time to time. Not completely inhuman. They’ll untie a man’s hands long enough to let him shit in the woods.”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says firmly.

Jaskier closes his mouth with a snap, then flashes her a shattering smile. “I ramble when I’m nervous,” he says.

“I know you do,” Yennefer answers, then helps him to his feet, gets his arm around her shoulders when it becomes rapidly clear that he _will_ fall flat on his face if she doesn’t keep him upright. His hand is fisted in the fabric of her cloak, his body is pressed up against her side, warm and solid. Yennefer loops her arm around his waist, and her fingers slide, unbidden, into the rags of his doublet. She feels the heat of the skin beneath his tattered shirt, the firm lines of his muscles, and after a moment she slides her hand higher, maps her fingers across his ribcage. He’s been beaten, clearly, hands and fists and feet, and if he has broken ribs, internal bleeding, anything more serious than cuts and bruises, she needs to know.

She feels the curl of hair beneath her fingertips, thick and soft.

“Hold onto me,” Yennefer says, and slides her palm back down to Jaskier’s waist.

“Oh, I won’t be letting go any time soon,” Jaskier answers, his hand flexing tighter in her cloak as she guides them towards the back of the wagon. “Trust me, my glorious rescuer, I am never letting go of you.” At which point he makes an excited, distracted noise and lets go of her, stumbling towards a shadowy corner of the wagon – and coming back with his _lute?_

Yennefer must be seeing things. “Is that your fucking _lute?_ ” she asks, just to double check.

Jaskier _hugs_ the damn instrument, the rags of his shirt catching on the strings. “I heard them playing her,” he says, his voice tight. “Along with them _butchering_ my entire body of work, of course, the fucking philistines. Have you ever heard a bunch of bounty hunters try to do justice to _The Stars Above the Path_?” He shudders dramatically, hugs his lute tighter. “I’m going to have to buy her new strings, give her a proper polish – ugh, do you see this?” He spins around, wobbling dangerously, and points to a dark stain on the instrument’s fine detailing. “Is that _gravy?_ Those fucking _monsters!_ ”

“You can fawn over your damn lute later,” Yennefer says sharply. “We have to go. We’re not safe here.”

Jaskier stares at the lute for a moment longer, then looks up at her. Fear flickers in his eyes for the first time since she pulled that bag off his head – and for a second, Yennefer thinks about what it must have been like for him, bound and blindfolded, trapped, alone. He’s not a fighter, he’s a _musician_. “Yeah,” Jaskier says shortly, hoarse and cracking. “Yeah, that makes sense.”

There’s a sour taste in the back of Yennefer’s throat.

She helps Jaskier down out of the wagon, his legs still shaky, clutching his lute like it’s the only thing in life that makes sense. The wagon driver is still sitting upright under her thrall, expression vacant, reins lax in his hands, and Yennefer studies him for a moment, deciding what to do. She doesn’t have to kill him. She can just open a portal, get them to the safety of Aretuza, leave this one remaining shitstain to spread the word, to tell anyone who will listen that the bard is _under her protection_ – but then she feels Jaskier stiffen at her side, sees his gaze flicker to the wagon driver’s hands.

There’s a gold signet ring on the driver’s right hand, shining in the soft moonlight. It’s a perfect match for the bruise on Jaskier’s cheek.

Yennefer crushes his skull before she even realises she’s done it.

Jaskier laughs, bitter and low. “That works,” he says, his fingers flexing around the neck of his lute.

Yennefer stares at the mess for a second, the fragments of skull, the smears of brain matter, the blood, thick and red. There’s that smell again, death and decay. It’s cloyingly sweet.

Jaskier lets out a shuddering sigh. She can feel his body tremble against hers.

Yennefer raises her hand, takes a breath, and opens a portal to Aretuza.

The school’s courtyard is empty when they step through, Jaskier leaning heavily on Yennefer’s shoulders, his breathing heavy, wincing and flinching with every step he takes. The sea air is fresh and salty, the portal snaps shut with a tang of ozone, the lute in Jaskier’s grasp smells of cedarwood and polish. There’s no death, no decay, and Yennefer takes a steadying breath, almost smiles as the bitter wind steals it from her lungs.

“Is this Aretuza?” Jaskier asks, his voice squeaking higher.

“It is,” Yennefer answers, guiding him inside.

Jaskier laughs. It’s a high-pitched, giggling sort of sound, and Yennefer abruptly realises that his whole body is trembling, his steps are weaving, his breathing is coming short and shallow. “Aretuza,” he says in that same squeaky voice, then giggles again. “Can we have a pillow-fight, Yennefer? I’ll strip down to my smallclothes. I’m sure it won’t be as alluring as if it were just you gorgeous sorceresses, and I’ll probably make the whole affair _significantly_ hairier, but I’ve been told on occasion that I’m not too hard on the eye—”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer interrupts, feeling the clamminess of his skin, the erratic stutter of his heart. She reaches out, takes his lute from his hand because she has a suspicion where this is going to end up. “You’re going into shock.”

Jaskier nods, his movements slow, his eyes glassy. “Yeah, sounds about right,” he says, and abruptly buckles at the knees.

“ _Shit_ ,” Yennefer barks, going down with him, just about managing to catch him before he cracks his skull on the stone floor. She fumbles his lute to the ground, doing her best not to let the stupid fucking thing smash to pieces, then turns to Jaskier, teeth gritted. His eyes are rolled back in his head, his lips are slack, unresponsive, and Yennefer presses her hand to his chest, feels for the reassuring thump of his heart, still there, still steady, still telling her he’s alive.

Footsteps thud down the corridor towards them. “ _Yennefer_ ,” Triss sighs, sinking to her knees on the stone flags, taking the weight of Jaskier’s head on her knees. “This is the bard, I assume?” she asks, already pressing her palm to his forehead, and Yennefer feels the whisper of Chaos as Triss pours healing magic into Jaskier’s body.

“It is,” Yennefer says, nodding, then licks her lips, vaguely aware that they’re dry, tacky. Her body feels heavier than it should, her mind a little slower than usual, and she watches as colour slowly returns to Jaskier’s cheeks, feels warmth seep back into the skin under her fingers. Her hand is still pressed to his chest, she realises, the torn rags of his doublet and shirt doing exceptionally little to preserve his modesty – not that modesty is a concept Jaskier is particularly au fait with, of course. Yennefer stares absently, fingertips flexing in the dark curls of his chest hair, tracing the surprisingly defined swell of his pectoral muscle. One dusky pink nipple has slipped out from underneath the stained blue remains of his ruined doublet.

A flood of something unexpectedly warm twists through Yennefer’s belly.

Triss sits back on her heels, taking her hand from Jaskier’s forehead. “He’s okay,” she says, nodding to herself. “Wasn’t too hurt in the first place, anyway. Shock, exhaustion, a few cuts and bruises. He just passed out.” She looks up, fixes Yennefer with an assessing glance. Worry flickers through her eyes. “Yennefer, are you okay?”

Yennefer licks her lips again, then nods slowly. “I’m fine,” she says, thick, like she’s talking through molasses. “Just tired.”

Triss studies her for a moment, then reaches out, faster than Yennefer can avoid, touches two fingertips to her forehead. A spark of Chaos flares in Yennefer’s mind, tasting of budding trees in springtime and rich loam wet after the rain, and the fog fades from her mind, her body lightens. “Better?” Triss asks, a soft smile playing around her lips.

Yennefer blinks, nods. “Better,” she agrees.

Triss’ smile broadens. “Are you going to stop feeling up Geralt’s bard now?”

And Yennefer realises that her hand is still resting on Jaskier’s chest, fingers resting loosely around the curve of that unexpectedly defined pectoral. Her thumb is just brushing the dark, puckered edge of his areola.

Yennefer yanks her hand away from his chest like it burned her.

Triss is watching her, clearly amused, but she has enough sense not to say anything.

On the ground between them, Jaskier stirs, his eyelids fluttering open. The bruises on his face are a faded yellow, now, the cut across his throat a faint white scar. Even his broken nose has straightened out. He looks up at Yennefer, his forehead furrowing. “Did I pass out?” he asks, sounding _significantly_ more lucid, and his gaze flickers to Triss. “Because it’s either that, or I’m still tied up in that wagon and having a _very_ interesting dream.”

“You passed out,” Yennefer says shortly, moving away, getting to her feet, brushing imaginary dirt off her skirts for the sake of something to do with her hands. She can still feel the heat of his skin against her palm, the plane of his muscle, the _softness_ of his chest hair – because those dark curls are _startlingly_ soft, much softer than the pale fur that fuzzes across Geralt’s scarred body. Which is a train of thought that she is _not_ going to explore further. “Come on,” she says, watching as Jaskier hauls himself to his feet, still a little wobbly, then gathers up his lute and cradles it to his chest once again. “It’s late, and I’ve had a long day.”

“ _You’ve_ had a long day,” Jaskier mutters.

“There should be empty rooms in the guest wing,” Triss says. “Go, get settled. The kitchens will probably be closed by now, but I’ll see what I scrounge for you.”

“Triss,” Yennefer says quickly, “there’s no need—”

“Your friend just passed out in the middle of the west corridor,” Triss interrupts, “and I’m pretty sure if I hadn’t noticed, you would have keeled over, too. You need to eat, _both_ of you, and then you need to get some sleep. Anything else, we can deal with in the morning.” She holds Yennefer’s gaze, stern and sharp. “Do you understand?”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Have you been taking lessons from Tissaia in how to order me around?”

Triss laughs. “Let’s just say, I’ve picked up a few tips,” she says, then makes a shooing motion with her hands. “Go. I’ll be with you soon.”

Yennefer watches Triss disappear down the corridor. There’s a strange feeling sitting at the back of her tongue, words she wishes she’d said, things she can’t quite bring herself to express. She’s not used to needing help. She’s not used to _accepting_ help and thinking about it is making her stomach twist, bitter and acid, so she turns back to Jaskier and finds him watching her, head tilted a little to one side. His fingers are tapping absently at the body of his lute and the look on his face is unexpectedly thoughtful. He shifts when she looks at him, though, flashes her a bright, burning grin. “So,” he says, one eyebrow tilted, lascivious and mocking, “who exactly is Tissaia and are you going to tell me more about how she _orders you around_?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I can give you back to those bounty hunters, you know.”

“Pretty sure you can’t, given that they’re all dead,” Jaskier says cheerfully. “Although I do appreciate the threat. Makes me feel right at home.”

“Come on, bard,” Yennefer says, and doesn’t think about how the idea of Jaskier being _at home_ in her presence makes her heart feel oddly full.

When Yennefer was a novice at Aretuza, the guest wing was rarely used. It was mostly just there to provide a place for the girls to hide vodka stashes and dirty novels – and, on occasion, to play host to the odd surreptitious tryst away from the others students’ prying eyes. Not that Yennefer was ever party to any such liaisons, of course, but she remembers catching Sabrina sneaking back to her room one night, lips kiss-swollen and hair tugged out of its sedate braid. Not that she said anything at the time, no, all she did when she met the challenge of Sabrina’s haughty gaze that night was look away.

Now, though, the guest wing resounds to the soft sounds of movement, the low rumble of snoring, the quiet whispers of pillowtalk. The reason why doesn’t quite click in Yennefer’s mind until they pass a half-open door and she sees the dress that Triss was wearing the night before she left for Vengerberg – and then, all of a sudden, it’s so ludicrously obvious that she can’t quite believe she didn’t work it out immediately. The injured of Sodden, the weary, the scared. They came here, after. They came here and huddled together against the storm of Nilfgaard while Yennefer fled and hid.

A bitter chill sits deep in Yennefer’s heart.

There are still a few empty bedchambers at the far end of the guest wing, and Yennefer chooses one that’s as far away from the occupied rooms as she can get. The room is simply furnished, two single beds, a small table with a pair of wooden chairs, and Yennefer goes to the window that looks out over the sea around Thanedd’s shores, listens to the faint crash of the surf, watches the twist of the clouds and the flicker of the moon. She can hear Jaskier fussing behind her, the creak of the bedframe when he sits down, and he starts plucking soft notes from his lute, making pained noises at the tuning, swearing tightly when she hears a string snap under his gentle touch. “Fucking _bastards_ ,” he mutters, genuine pain in his voice. “It wasn’t enough for them to kidnap me and mock me and beat me, oh no, they had to fuck with my instrument as well. Broken strings, gravy stains – don’t they know that I was given this lute by Filavandrel himself? Have they not _listened_ to my songs? Well, I mean they clearly haven’t, not in any serious detail, because if they did they wouldn’t have _dared_ to—”

Jaskier stops dead in the middle of a sentence.

Yennefer studies the sea a moment longer, watching white horses roll in towards the shore. She’s not really thinking about anything in particular, more just listening to the tiredness in her bones, the heaviness creeping back into her shoulders despite Triss’ magic, so it takes her a while to realise that Jaskier hasn’t started rambling again. She glances back at him, some jibe forming on her lips about how if she’d realised getting him kidnapped by bounty hunters would shut him up she would have arranged it years ago – but then she sees him, _actually_ sees him, sees him sitting on the edge of one of the narrow single beds, sees him hunched over his upturned lute, sees his hands shaking so much that they’re drumming against the polished wood.

Yennefer’s heartbeat kicks up a notch. “Jaskier?”

Jaskier looks up at her, startled, almost like he forgot she was there. His face is ashen, his eyes too bright. “Ah,” he says, then stops short, almost like he’s forgotten how to speak. “Sorry. Um, yeah.” His words are scattered, fractured.

Yennefer has been drinking her way through the Continent with Jaskier for maybe three years now, red wine in Vizima, foaming ale in Kaedwen, pepper vodka and juniper schnapps on one memorable evening in the Skellige Isles that, unfortunately, she has very little memory of. That means that she’s seen him in all manner of states, blind drunk, horrifically hungover, laughingly tipsy – and once or twice she’s even seen him cry, on evenings that they were both in melancholic, maudlin moods and no number of cheese platters could lift them up again.

She’s never seen him look quite so _sick_ before.

Yennefer crosses the room before she really realises she’s doing it. She sits next to him, reaches out to take his shaking hands without a second thought – then stops, her hands hovering above his in midair, both of them framing the dark wood of his lute.

Except the wood isn’t so dark anymore.

Someone has taken a knife to the back of Jaskier’s lute. Someone has taken a knife and hacked a pattern of fucking _flowers_ into the back of his lute, and it hasn’t been done with skill, hasn’t been done with love and care, no, it’s a godsdamned _mess_. There are splinters and rogue scratches everywhere, the design is no more complex than something a child would draw, and Yennefer can only tell that they’re supposed to be fucking _dandelions_ because of the ugly, misshapen seeds that are being carried away by a nonexistent breeze.

“I thought I was going to die,” Jaskier says, his voice oddly calm. “I honestly did. I thought I was going to die in that wagon. Or in a Nilfgaardian cell, if I got that far. No one knew I was there, no one was coming for me.” He pauses, laughs. It’s a bitter sound. “I remember sitting there after they’d beaten me for maybe the third time, tasting my own vomit on that fucking _gag_ , and I had this realisation that the only person in my whole fucking life who’d ever cared about me enough to mount that kind of rescue was _Geralt_ – and, well, that was never going to happen, was it?” He looks at her, his eyes glassy. “You saved my life, Yennefer,” he says, bald and bare and still so full of fear. “And I am really fucking grateful to you for that, but I _did not expect_ to be saved.”

Yennefer’s hand is still hovering above his, barely a handspan away from where his fingers tremble against his brutalised lute. She can’t quite bring herself to close the distance.

The door is pushed open and Triss enters in a swish of skirts, a jug in her hand and a pair of servants in tow. “Dinner is served,” she announces with a self-deprecating flourish, and one of the servants places two plates of food on the table, then starts setting out cups and cutlery. Yennefer takes advantage of the sudden flurry of activity to spring away from Jaskier, getting to her feet and, without even really noticing what she’s doing, shielding him as he surreptitiously wipes at his eyes. “I also brought hot water,” Triss says, her gaze flickering between them, “and a change of clothes for you, bard. Thought you might prefer to wear something that wasn’t torn to shreds.”

Jaskier accepts a bundle of clothes from the second servant. His lute sits next to him on the pillows of the bed, its defaced back hidden from view. “Thank you,” he says, then looks up, gets to his feet. “Triss, is it?”

“That’s right,” Triss answers. “Triss Merigold. And you’re Jaskier.”

“My name precedes me,” Jaskier says, and sketches a bow. “I can only apologise for appearing before you in such a ragged state, my lady. I blame the bandits.”

“I’ve seen worse,” Triss says, offering him a smile that Yennefer knows is intended to reassure. “I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Less likely to faint like a wilting maiden in one of my ballads,” Jaskier confirms, his expression turning a little wry.

Triss laughs. “Good to hear,” she says. She lifts the jug in her hand, then sets it down on the table. “Whisky,” she says, by way of explanation, then twists a smile at Yennefer. “Borrowed it from Tissaia’s private stash. Make sure you drink all of it, otherwise you’ll have to explain to her how exactly you managed to get your hands on the finest thirty-year-old Temerian malt that no one’s supposed to know she has.”

“Thank all the gods,” Jaskier mutters, making a beeline for the whisky. He pours what Yennefer is going to describe as a _generous_ measure into one of the cups, then drinks it in one, coughs shortly, and pours himself another. He toasts to Triss. “You are a boon from above,” he says, grandiloquent and luxurious. “Your lips are like roses in the night, your skin glows with the light of the sunrise. Your hair is as glorious as the springtime forests, your eyes are limpid woodland pools, _your taste in alcohol is exquisite_ —”

“Stop talking, Jaskier,” Yennefer says, suppressing a smile.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” Jaskier says brightly, then sits down at the table and starts eating.

Triss reaches for Yennefer’s elbow, grips gently, then lets go. “I’m down the corridor, if you need anything,” she says softly.

“I’ll be fine,” Yennefer answers automatically.

Triss doesn’t argue, doesn’t object. “Of course you will be,” she says. “But I’m there, regardless.” She pauses, eyes Jaskier. “And _please_ come get me if he passes out again,” she says, loud enough that Jaskier raises his cup of whisky to her in acknowledgement, his mouth stuffed full of bread.

“I will,” Yennefer says, then hesitates. “Thank you, Triss.”

“You’re welcome,” Triss says, and then her smile floods with amusement. “And, as a favour,” she says in a whisper, “I _won’t_ mention to Sabrina that you’re voluntarily sharing a room with the bard, _after_ dropping everything to go rescue him—” She glances to Jaskier, who is more than preoccupied with shoving as much food in his mouth as he can. “—and _after_ that tender little touch in the hallway.”

Yennefer feels herself flush, but there’s no judgement in Triss’ words. “He’s a _friend_ ,” she says, a little strained.

“Of course he is,” Triss says, nodding. “Of course.”

“ _Triss_.”

Triss’ eyes dance. “Goodnight, Yennefer,” she says, and goes.

Yennefer watches her leave with narrowed eyes, then settles into the chair opposite Jaskier, pushes her cup across the table to him and starts to eat. It’s nothing complicated, cold cuts and this morning’s bread, soft butter and a salad dressed with oil and vinegar, but Yennefer abruptly realises that she hasn’t eaten since that meat pie yesterday afternoon. She wolfs the food down, barely noticing as Jaskier passes her cup back, now full of Tissaia’s best whisky, and for a little while, they don’t talk. Magical healing is one thing, but there’s really no substitute for a good meal.

And the whisky doesn’t hurt.

Jaskier sits back, his cup cradled against his stomach. “Sorry,” he says, after a long moment. His hands are steady, now, and he offers her a crooked smile. “About earlier. Didn’t mean to bring the mood down like that.”

Yennefer sips her whisky, buying herself time because she doesn’t quite know how to say _I never want to see you scared like that again_ without sounding utterly pathetic. “The flowers,” she says eventually. “On your lute.”

Jaskier winces, takes a long drink. “Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t know they’d done that.” He sighs, shakes his head. “They kept calling me _Dandelion_ ,” he says, a pained twist to his lips. “Because of my name, you know?”

Yennefer frowns. “ _Jaskier_ doesn’t mean dandelion.”

Jaskier snorts. “I’m aware,” he says. “But I guess if you’re a malodorous bounty hunter, one yellow flower is much the same as another.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “They’d laugh at me when they hit me, you know? Told me I’m a shitty little flower, a weed – which, you know, it’s a pretty standard interrogation technique, isn’t it? Break down your captive, make him feel worthless. Remind him that no one’s coming for him.” His voice shakes, just a little, and he forces a smile. “The one with the ruined face, he was the worst for it – the one who was in the wagon with me when you swept in like an avenging angel?”

“He goes by Mangle,” Yennefer offers, relishing the burn of the whisky down her throat.

“Of course he does,” Jaskier says, rolling his eyes. “How very _original_ of him.” He shakes his head. “Maybe that’s why he wanted to make fun of my name. Maybe he’s just a bit touchy about his own.”

The whisky is going straight to Yennefer’s head. “You’re not a weed, Jaskier,” she says flatly. “You know you’re not.”

“Oh, I’m well aware,” Jaskier answers, reaching for the jug of whisky. “If they were going to mistranslate my moniker, there’s a whole _host_ of other yellow flowers they could have picked. Sunflowers, they’re yellow. And you can get yellow roses, can’t you? Tulips, marigolds, dahlias.”

Yennefer shakes her head. “The original meaning is best,” she says, taking a long, slow sip of whisky. “Buttercups.”

Jaskier snorts. “They’re weeds, too.”

“But the connotations are more accurate,” Yennefer says, alcohol thick on her tongue. “Pretty and poisonous.”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow, surprise bright in his eyes, then laughs. “Poisonous?” he echoes. “Hardly. You know I can’t exactly fight, Yennefer, and if you’d seen how _easily_ those bounty hunting bastards subdued me, you’d probably never deign to spend an evening in my company ever again.” There’s a bitterness in his voice that Yennefer doesn’t think she’s heard before, and her fingers twitch when she realises that he’s directing that bitterness at _himself_. “Not much of a man, am I?” he asks, flashing her a tight smile, and Yennefer can hear the echo of someone else’s mockery in his voice. “Maybe our dear friend Mangle had a point about that.”

Yennefer sits up straighter. “What does he know about being a man?” she asks, softer, sharper. “He’s a fool who cowers behind another, who beats a bound man, who trafficks in people and their misery. He’s no _man_. He’s an arsehole and a coward.” She pauses, bares her teeth in a smile. “More to the point, he’s dead. So fuck him.”

Jaskier smiles, ducks his head. “You always know just what to say to make a man feel better about himself,” he says, but doesn’t meet her gaze. His fingertips tap nervously at the rim of his cup, and he drinks, deep and slow.

Yennefer gets to her feet, goes to the bed, and picks up Jaskier’s abandoned lute.

Jaskier watches her, frowning. “Yennefer?”

Yennefer turns the instrument over, runs her fingertips over the crude, ugly etchings. “I assume,” she says, glancing up at Jaskier, “that you don’t want to keep these?”

“I don’t really see that I have much of a choice in the matter,” Jaskier says heavily. “Those scratches are deep, too deep to smooth out – it would thin the wood of the body too much, affect the sound quality.” He shrugs, but there’s pain in his eyes. “The damage is just aesthetic. I’ll learn to live with it.”

Yennefer lays her palm flat over the rough, scratchy dandelions. “May I?”

Jaskier stares at her blankly. “May you what?”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Fix it.”

“Fix it?” Jaskier asks. “How?” He stares at her a second longer, forehead furrowed, then something clearly clicks in his brain and his eyes go wide. “What, with magic? No, no, no, Yennefer, no, I can’t let you do that.”

Yennefer’s gaze is icy. “You can’t _let_ me?”

“Not like _that_ ,” Jaskier says. “No, Yennefer, you’re exhausted. Triss said so – and I can _see_ it. No offence—you’re still obviously _stunningly_ gorgeous—but you look like a stiff breeze could knock you over. I can’t let you waste your strength to, what, heal my fucking _lute?_ It’s just a lute! It doesn’t matter!”

“It matters to you,” Yennefer interrupts, presses her hand over the broken, battered scratches in the lute’s smooth, dark wood, and wipes them out of existence. It pulls at something in her, unravels a string in her heart a little more than it should strictly be unravelled, but then she looks up, sees the sheer breaking relief on Jaskier’s face – and, well, it’s worth it.

“I mean,” Jaskier says, his voice a little hoarse, “I _was_ just going to suggest that you take a look in the morning after a good night’s sleep, but I guess this works, too.” He flashes her a smile, a hint of his usual cheekiness seeping back. “And I thought _I_ was supposed to be the dramatic one in this relationship.”

Yennefer feels her cheeks flush hot. She hands him his godsdamned lute, takes a seat, and reaches for her whisky. “I’m not the one who had to be dramatically rescued from Nilfgaard,” she points out, and drinks.

Jaskier runs a brief touch over the undamaged wood, strums a couple of chords, bright and shining. “Honestly, I sort of get where they were coming from,” he says philosophically, and there it is, that sly humour that Yennefer knows from afternoons in Vizima, evenings in Novigrad, nights in Beauclair. “Nilfgaard as an empire has a _bit_ of an image problem, and my songs have done wonders for the popularity of various different locales across the Continent over the years. They probably just wanted me to sing them up a new public image, encourage a bit more tourism from the Northern Kingdoms. Very enterprising of them.” He snorts to himself, reaches for his whisky. “I mean, Posada _really_ leans into the whole ‘valley of plenty’ thing nowadays. The mayor invited me back a few years ago, you know? On account of all the free advertising _Toss A Coin_ brought the area. Good as gave me the keys to the place, although, frankly, Posada’s a _bit_ of a shithole. I’m not entirely sure it’s big enough to _have_ keys.”

Yennefer looks at him, a little blank. “Where the fuck is Posada?”

Jaskier gasps in shock. “Sometimes, Yennefer, I swear it’s like you don’t even listen to me,” he says, outraged. “Posada. In Dol Blathanna? Little nowhere town, solely important because of its frankly gravity-defying architecture, and, well…” He stumbles, trails off. “It’s where I met Geralt,” he says finally, somewhere between defiant and wistful. “Eighteen, fresh-faced, and right out of Oxenfurt. Saw a beautiful, brooding man on the other side of a _highly_ unappreciative tavern and pretty much fell in love then and there.”

Yennefer’s mouth is dry. “Love?” she echoes.

Jaskier’s face has gone a little slack, and he stares at her for a moment, lute cradled in his lap like it’s the most precious thing in the world.

They’ve talked about Geralt before. Of course they have, they’ve laughed about his sleeping habits and joked about his sexual preferences, commiserated and consoled and comforted each other because, really, there’s no one else in this world who understands the intimate, astonishing frustrations of being tangled up in that particular emotionally-stunted witcher’s life – but _love?_ That’s a word they’ve never said.

“I have to find him,” Jaskier says suddenly, then grabs his whisky, knocks back whatever’s left in his cup and fills it up again. “Fuck, Yennefer, I have to find him. I know what he said, I know how we left things, but—” He breaks off, grits his jaw. She can practically hear the cogs whirring in his head. “I could have died in that wagon,” he says finally, looking up at her, something that looks like certainty settling over his expression. “I _would_ have died in all likelihood, if you hadn’t come for me. And if I died—” He catches himself, drinks. “It would be completely unacceptable,” he says firmly, “if I’d died without Geralt knowing _exactly_ how much I love him. _Unacceptable._ So I won’t let it happen.” He nods, jaw tight, eyes so very bright. “I’ll find him,” he says. “I have to.”

Something cold and painful twists Yennefer’s heart. “I can’t—” she starts, but doesn’t know how to finish the thought. She drinks, too, listens to the burn of the whisky in her gut. “I can’t,” she says again, quieter. “Not yet.”

Jaskier nods. “He’ll be there when you’re ready,” he says, then he laughs, short and sharp. “I’ll _make sure_ he’ll be there when you’re ready.”

Yennefer looks at him sharply. “You’d do that?” she asks. “You’d – _share_ him?”

Jaskier snorts. “If this strange little friendship we’ve cultivated has taught me anything,” he says, raising his cup of whisky in a toast, “it’s that Geralt of Rivia is _more_ than capable of making _both_ our lives very, very difficult. I feel it’s only fair that we get the chance to make _his_ life difficult in return.” He pauses, shrugs. “And, frankly, I feel a lot safer now that I know I can rely on you to come rescue me from dastardly bandit kidnappers. Not willing to jeopardise _that_ just because I miss having Geralt’s cock in my arse.”

Yennefer snorts whisky out of her nose.

Jaskier laughs, clear and bright. “I think I’m going to wash up and get some sleep,” he says, smiling brighter than the moonlight. “Being kidnapped takes it out of a guy, you know? Between that and the realisation that I’m still arse over tit in love with that fucking _idiot_ of a witcher, I’m exhausted.”

Yennefer thinks about _in love with that witcher_ , and for some reason her heart twists in her chest.

Jaskier sets his lute down on the floor next to one of the beds and goes to the basin of water the servants left. He strips down to his smallclothes, unselfconscious about his own nudity, and washes as much of himself as he can reach, chattering all the time about hot springs and lavender-scented water and copper bathtubs. Yennefer sits at the table, finishing off the whisky, and offers a comment every now and then, as sarcastic and biting as she can manage – but it’s not as joyful as it should be. She’s unsettled. She’s _off_ , and it could be the kidnapping and the violence, sure, it could be the yellowing bruises and half-healed cuts that she can see mapped across Jaskier’s body, but there’s something else, something she can’t quite put her finger on.

Jaskier sits on the edge of his bed, still just in his smalls. His hair is wet, curling at the ends, and his muscles flex under pale skin, bare chest, exposed thighs, and it’s not like she hasn’t seen him like this before, no, they’ve shared all manner of rooms after their drunken escapades so they’ve seen each other in various states of undress. Right now, Yennefer’s still fully clothed, sitting at the table with the last of the whisky in her cup, so she’s vaguely aware that _she_ shouldn’t be the uncomfortable one in this situation when he’s sat there practically _naked_ – but she _is_.

Jaskier sighs, flops back on the bed. He lies there for a second, just staring at the ceiling, then says, voice soft, “Thank you.”

Yennefer’s throat is tight. “Go to sleep, Jaskier,” she says, and finishes the whisky.

Jaskier laughs, then pulls the blankets up, buries himself in the pillows, and sleeps.

Yennefer flicks a finger to snuff out the candles, leaving the room lit only by the pale sheen of the moonlight. The wind has calmed, the clouds have fled, and now the sea glimmers in the silence of the night, liquid silver, rising and falling with the rhythm of the swell. It’s the kind of night that calls for magic rituals on windy heaths, for trysts between star-crossed lovers, for pacts between peerless kings and the schemings of their matchless queens. It’s a powerful night. It’s a peaceful night.

Yennefer sits and watches Jaskier sleep, open and vulnerable, so human, so fucking _fragile_. He’s burrowed so deep beneath the blankets that all she can see is the shadowed tousle of his dark hair and the pale gleam of his cheekbone, and for a moment she imagines Geralt in that bed with him, curled around his back, arm across his waist, nosing at the back of his neck, holding him safe, holding him close.

Yennefer doesn’t need to be coddled, doesn’t need to be watched over, doesn’t need to be _looked after_ – but for some reason, that image twists her heart with a bitter kind of jealousy.

Except she’s not _jealous_ , why would she be fucking _jealous?_

Yennefer grimaces, knocks back the remnants of the whisky, and goes to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

**[PODFIC MOBILE STREAMING LINK | 02:14:20](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_%20pt3.mp3)**

[full podfic downloads available in chapter 7]

* * *

_three._

The letter finds Yennefer in Novigrad at the beginning of spring.

It’s waiting for her when she steps back into her lodgings, sitting on the polished mahogany side table in the small library along with a pile of other correspondence. There’s a brief note from Tissaia and a lengthy essay from Istredd along with any number of requests for her presence, her assistance, her advice from petitioners across the Continent. Yennefer sits in a wingback armchair and sifts through the letters, sorting them into smaller piles: to read now, to read later, and to kindle tonight’s fire when the springtime cold settles into her bones. The sorting process is fairly straightforward—she deliberates over putting Istredd’s dissertation in the _kindling_ pile, before begrudgingly relegating it to _later_ —until she gets to the bottom of the stack.

And there it is.

A letter with the distinctive curl of paper that’s been flattened out after being carried on the ankle of a raven. A letter addressed in a familiar hand to _Yen_.

There’s only one person who calls her Yen, after all.

Yennefer puts the rest to one side, and opens Geralt’s letter.

It’s short, which she’s somehow not surprised by. He greets her with careful formality before rapidly shifting to explain that he’s writing from Kaer Morhen, that Ciri’s with him—Yennefer’s heart warms a little at the mention of the vicious little princess—and that she’s having difficulties with aspects of her blossoming Chaos. Yennefer frowns, reads more intently: bad dreams, uncontrolled bouts of telekinesis, an inability to block out the thoughts from others’ minds. Geralt goes on to say that they’ll be in Ard Carraigh in a few weeks time, and asks that she meet them there – and then his handwriting wavers a little, a little less confident, and he writes, _It would be good to see you, Yen._

Yennefer drops the letter into her lap, curls her hand into a fist.

She last saw Geralt in Oxenfurt, just before winter began to close in. She was there with Jaskier, sharing a steaming jug of mulled wine in his study at the Academy, loudly complaining to him about whatever the _fuck_ it is that Vilgefortz thinks he’s doing in the south of Lyria, when the door opened and Geralt just strolled in, casual, easy, like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be. He froze a little when he saw her, still awkward, still strained, but then Ciri came barreling past and practically threw herself into Yennefer’s arms and, well, when Yennefer next looked up, Geralt had a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and the smile on Jaskier’s face could only really be described as _doting._

An expression that Yennefer, of course, made sure to _relentlessly_ mock him for later.

Yennefer smiles at the memory, just faintly, and retrieves Geralt’s letter.

Geralt gives a few more details of dates, lists the names of a few places they’re likely to be staying in, then signs off. Yennefer rereads the short message once more, particularly the description of Ciri’s difficulties, trying to piece together a picture of what she might need to do from Geralt’s sparse prose – then flips the letter over and sees that there’s a postscript, written in a different hand, scrawling and flamboyant, unsigned as if the writer just assumes that she’ll know who it is.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer murmurs to herself, rolling her eyes, then reads.

_Bring a bottle of that lavender mead I like, won’t you, my naiad? The alcohol selection at Kaer Morhen is, frankly, appalling – I tried to have a word with Vesemir, but he just said something about having more important priorities than my “dandyish tastes”, and then proceeded to fawn all over Ciri for the rest of the evening. I feel very underappreciated._

The ‘very’ is, of course, dramatically underlined.

 _I’ll see you in Ard Carraigh,_ Jaskier writes, and then, on the next line: _He’s ready when you are._

A sharp thrill runs through Yennefer’s heart.

She puts the letter to one side, then quickly skims through the rest of the notes that she put in the _now_ pile. There’s nothing there that’s either exciting or interesting, so she tosses them to one side, goes back to Geralt’s letter and reads it through once more. The dates he gives are a week or so from now – and while it’s maybe not _ideal_ for Yennefer to leave Novigrad so soon because she does have business here that can’t just be dropped at a moment’s notice, she can probably deal with the most pressing issues in the next few days, then clear her schedule and go meet them in Ard Carraigh.

Yennefer flips the letter over and rereads Jaskier’s postscript. She lingers over _my naiad_ , snorts a laugh, then ponders the mead request for a second, tries to remember if there’s a specialist stockist of Lyrian spirits in Novigrad. There’s a boutique supplier of exotic alcohols in one of the main squares, she thinks – she’ll have a look tomorrow. Jaskier gifted her a bottle of violet-infused gin distilled by one of his Oxenfurt friends the last time they met, so she does owe him – and, therefore, he will be _relentless_ if she doesn’t turn up in Ard Carraigh with _exactly_ what he wants. He’s nothing if not predictable.

Yennefer runs her thumb over that last line of text— _He’s ready when you are._ —then folds the letter and tucks it into her pocket.

It takes her six days to deal with the rest of her most pressing business in Novigrad. Anything that’s left either isn’t important or can be passed on to someone else to deal with, and she spends a productive afternoon at the desk in her library, writing letters to colleagues that she knows will be able to pick up the slack. Istredd’s essay actually turns out to be surprisingly interesting, so she tucks that into the bag she’s taking with her to Ard Carraigh, figures that she can spend a cold early-spring evening replying at her leisure while Geralt and Jaskier make eyes at each other over Ciri’s head.

Or something along those lines.

Yennefer’s read Geralt’s letter so many times now that the paper is starting to come apart at the creases. She’s read Jaskier’s postscript just as many times, if not more, and there’s a bottle of Lyrian lavender mead sitting in her travel bag, just waiting to be delivered.

It’s a little after noon on a cold, stormy day in Novigrad when Yennefer opens up a portal to Kaedwen. She’s wrapped up warm, her coat lined with fox fur, boots high and snug around her calves, leather gloves creaking with every twist of her fingers, but despite all her preparations the wind hits her like a knife the moment she steps through onto the stones of Ard Carraigh. She curses under her breath, tugs her coat tighter around herself, and peers up into the bitter blue sky, the cold sun, the fat, heavy clouds. Couldn’t Geralt have summoned her to somewhere a little _warmer?_

Snowflakes start to drift lazily down from the sky, catching in her hair, in the fox fur around her neck, and Yennefer decides it’s probably best to go find shelter before she ends up caught in a blizzard.

She remembers the names of the inns in Geralt’s letter without even having to think about it: _The Rose Thorn_ , _The Traveller’s Repose_ , and _The End of the Road_ , which, frankly, sounds a little ominous. Yennefer tries _The End of the Road_ first, is vaguely glad when the innkeeper tells her no one matching Geralt’s description has been here in the last few weeks, and then moves on to _The Rose Thorn_. It’s a rustic little place, tucked away in one of the city’s more obscure back streets, and as Yennefer trudges her way through the gusting snow towards the inn’s merrily painted front door, she hears the strains of a familiar tenor voice drifting through the cold northern air.

Yennefer listens to the song for a moment. It’s something new, not one she’s heard before, the melody rising sweet and resonant over Ard Carraigh’s snowy rooftops. It calms the uneven patter of her heart.

She pushes through the inn’s front door, painted in a swirling, stylised pattern of roses with unsurprisingly thorny stems. It’s warm inside, a fire burning hot and smoky in a deep hearth, candles flickering on every table in the small common area, and Yennefer closes the door behind her before that delicious warmth can dissipate into the wintry air. She scans the dim interior as she pulls off her gloves, breathing in the smell of ale and stew, listening to the sound of low conversation – and, well, it’s not like a witcher, a princess, and a brightly-coloured bard are exactly hard to find.

Jaskier’s perched on a chair next to the fireplace, fingers picking almost lazily at the strings of his lute. His voice is lilting and melodious, weaving through the smoky air, singing a song of comfort and safety and long, slow evenings gathered around a fire in the depths of winter, and he glances up as Yennefer crosses the common area, catches her gaze and flashes her smile, but doesn’t stop singing. A warmth that’s different from the heat of the fire seeps through Yennefer’s heart at that, rich and comforting, and she holds onto it, clings to it tighter than she’d like to admit as she turns away and goes to the ever-predictable shadowy table in a quiet corner.

She does notice, however, that the table has a perfect view of where Jaskier sits and croons beside the fire.

Geralt straightens at her approach, ease and relaxation disappearing from his stance. “Yen,” he says, something that might almost be hope in his expression. “It’s good to see you.”

Ciri, sitting with her back to the room, spins in her seat. “ _Yennefer!_ ” she practically squeals, then hurls herself to her feet and throws her arms around Yennefer’s waist. All the wind is driven out of Yennefer’s lungs at the impact, and for a second all she can think is that Ciri’s grip is _strong_ , surprisingly so, stronger than it was before the winter – but then that warmth in her heart sparks stronger, hotter, burns up into a fire of love and affection that consumes her every waking thought except for the girl in her arms.

Yennefer wraps her arms around Ciri, pulls her into a hug, presses her cheek into her ash-blonde hair. “Ciri,” she says, quiet enough that even Geralt would struggle to hear, then draws back, kisses her forehead lightly – and pauses. “ _What_ ,” she says, her voice as icy as the blizzard building outside, “have they _done_ to your _hair?_ ”

The last time Yennefer saw her, Ciri’s hair was down to her waist, pale and soft and falling in gentle, elegant waves. Now, it’s shorn short around her ears, irregular and sticking up at the back of her head, longer on the left, with one errant strand at the back reaching down below her collar. It’s possibly the worst haircut Yennefer has ever seen. It’s frankly _offensive_.

Ciri grins up at her. “Lambert cut it!” she says brightly. “He said it would get in my eyes if I had it so long, and that it was fine for—” She cuts herself off, glances at the half-full common room, then takes Yennefer by the hand and guides her to their table. “He said it was fine for a princess to have hair like that,” she says, quieter, and Yennefer slides into an empty seat, “but that, if I’m to be a witcher, it’s a risk. It’s stupid to try to fight monsters with hair that long.”

Yennefer turns her gaze to Geralt, who quails a little. “And you just _let him cut it all off?_ ” she asks, incredulous. “ _Lambert?_ ”

Geralt just shrugs.

“I quite like it,” Ciri says, a little prim. “It feels a lot lighter.”

“There’s nothing wrong with having it short, Ciri,” Yennefer says, then reaches out, runs her fingers over the ragged cut, tugs lightly at that longer strand at the nape of Ciri’s neck. “But it can still have a little more style than… whatever this is supposed to be.”

“I _did_ try to tell them you wouldn’t be happy,” Jaskier says, taking the seat next to Geralt, perched across the table from Yennefer. There’s a softness in Geralt’s eyes that Yennefer doesn’t miss, and he presses a light touch to Jaskier’s back, almost absently, like he doesn’t realise he’s doing it. “Warned Lambert to maybe get out of town if he hears you’re around for the next few years,” Jaskier continues. “I know how seriously you take hair and beauty.” He flashes her a bright, affectionate smile. “Hello, Yennefer.”

Yennefer ignores his greeting. “You _let_ them do this?”

Jaskier grimaces. “I wasn’t consulted,” he says, mock-glaring at Ciri, who just giggles. “And I have it on Eskel’s good authority that I was _intentionally distracted_ while this butchery was going on because they knew I wouldn’t stand for it.”

Yennefer turns her sharpest gaze on Ciri. “Is that right?”

Ciri just beams back, gleefully cheerful. “It was Lambert’s idea,” she says helpfully.

“ _Lambert_ isn’t the one who distracted me with sweet nothings about my singing while his witcher brothers destroyed your hair,” Jaskier says, pointedly not looking at Geralt.

“Geralt?” Yennefer asks, icy cold.

Geralt looks possibly more uncomfortable than Yennefer’s ever seen him before.

“Lambert threatened him,” Ciri explains. “Said that he’d tell Jaskier what happened with the bruxa in Gulet if he didn’t help us.”

“And then Lambert told me anyway,” Jaskier completes, smacking Geralt lightly in the chest. “So that went really well for you, didn’t it?”

Geralt hums in response, his expression caught somewhere between irritated and hopelessly fond – and all of a sudden, Yennefer is overcome by a sudden flood of _feeling_ , affection and warmth, happiness and _yearning_. Jaskier says something else that she doesn’t hear, Ciri laughs in response and kicks out at him under the table, and Yennefer watches Geralt watch them, watches the softness in his eyes, the _protectiveness_ , the way his touch lingers on Jaskier’s back, the intensity of his focus when he speaks to Ciri.

She wants that, she abruptly realises. She _misses_ that.

Jaskier is studying her, a small smile playing around his lips. “Geralt,” he says, not dropping Yennefer’s gaze. “Weren’t you talking about taking Roach to that blacksmith we passed on the way in yesterday, getting that loose shoe looked at? You know, Ciri, the smithy with those daggers hung up outside – the ones with the tourmalines in the hilt?”

Ciri’s eyes go wide. “You did say I could try them out, Geralt,” she says insistently. “See what the weight is like – you _said_ they’re the right size for me!”

“You don’t need daggers with tourmalines in the hilt,” Geralt rumbles, but Yennefer doesn’t need to see his expression to know that he’ll do whatever Ciri wants him to, in the end. “But Roach does need her shoes looking at,” he allows after a moment, and unfolds from the table. “Come on, Ciri,” he says, and then pauses, almost _hovers_. “You staying, Yen?”

Yennefer looks up at him – and, oh, _fuck_ , she’d forgotten what it feels like to have that golden gaze on her. “I’m staying,” she says, nodding shortly, and turns back to Jaskier before she can succumb to the shiver that’s threatening to wrack her spine.

Jaskier glances up at Geralt, a wry smile twisting his lips. “Go,” he says, quietly commanding. “We’ll be here when you’re done trying to resist buying Ciri whatever she wants you to buy her.”

Yennefer half-expects Geralt to argue, but instead he just hums, quietly amused, and goes, taking Ciri with him. His hand rests on her shoulder as they duck out of the inn’s painted door, the very picture of father and his skinny-limbed child.

Yennefer looks away, a tightness in her throat that she chooses not to look at. Instead, she quirks an eyebrow at Jaskier, says, “You seem to have him well-trained.”

Jaskier’s expression turns a little rueful. “Let’s just say he’s a lot more _attentive_ this time around,” he says, then laughs at his own words, waggles his eyebrows. “In all _kinds_ of ways.”

“And it sounds like you’ve had all winter to break him in,” Yennefer observes.

“In between mucking out stables, trying not to fall for any of Lambert’s pranks, and making a valiant effort to persuade Vesemir to update Kaer Morhen’s spirits collection?” Jaskier sighs, leaning forward on the table between them, burying his head in his hands. “I swear, Yennefer, it’s beautiful up in the mountains, it really is, and I get that it’s the safest place for Ciri to be, I really do – but _gods_ , I missed wintering in polite society.” He looks up at her, his eyes shining with memory. “Roast partridge, hot chocolate. Mulled wine with cinnamon and cloves and star anise. _Winter balls!_ Red velvet doublets trimmed with mink, those fur stole things that they wear in Cidaris.” He laughs, sits back in his chair, and despite his complaining, his shoulders are loose, relaxed. He looks _happy_. “You know, I got snowed in at the Countess de Stael’s estate one winter? Oh, maybe ten years ago now. We spent _days_ in her rooms, not even getting dressed to eat, making love on every surface we could. She had this bearskin rug in front of the fire, it was massive and so _soft_ – and I don’t know if you’ve ever fucked on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, Yennefer, but I can seriously recommend it.”

Just for a second, Yennefer lets herself picture it – Jaskier, naked as the day he was born, skin flushed from the fire, head thrown back, mouth open, eyes closed. Those long, calloused fingers running through the soft fur of the bearskin rug, gripping tight as his pleasure builds.

Her mouth goes a little dry, and she puts that thought to one side. “I’ll bear that in mind,” she says, distracted.

Jaskier stares at her. “Was that a _pun?_ ”

Yennefer winces. “Never intentionally,” she answers as haughtily as she can, and then, because she can see the teasing look blossoming in his expression, “I have something for you.”

Jaskier’s eyes light up. He is _so easy_ to distract. “My lavender mead?”

“Your lavender mead,” Yennefer confirms, retrieving the bottle from her travel bag. It’s slender, surprisingly elegant, with delicate lavender stems moulded in the glass around the neck – and she’s not about to tell Jaskier this, but she did pay slightly more for that raised lavender decoration to be lightly gilded. It’s a gift, after all. Yennefer never stints on a gift.

Jaskier snatches it out of her hands, pulls the stopper out and breathes in the honey-sweet, floral fragrance of the mead. “I’ve not had this in _months_ ,” he says, ecstatic. “Not since last summer, I think – that afternoon on the barge, with that boatman who wouldn’t stop staring down your dress.”

Yennefer snorts a laugh. “His optimism was almost inspiring,” she says dryly.

Jaskier hums, and stoppers the bottle. “It does take _significantly_ more work than that to bed the mighty Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he says, then practically _smirks_. “Speaking of.”

Yennefer knew it was coming, but that doesn’t stop the heat rising in her cheeks. She arches an eyebrow as regally as she can, says, “What exactly are you referring to?”

“You can’t fool me, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, surprisingly soft. “I saw the way you were looking at him just then – I know what those doe-eyes mean, mainly because I’m pretty sure that that’s how I look most of the time when I’m around him.”

Yennefer bristles. “I don’t have _doe-eyes_.”

“You really do,” Jaskier answers, then reaches across the table, covers her hand with his. “And I don’t mean anything bad by it, I _really_ don’t. There’s nothing wrong with being vulnerable.” Yennefer opens her mouth, ready to contradict _that_ ridiculous statement, but Jaskier just keeps talking. “There _isn’t_. In fact, being vulnerable is a _good thing_ – do you _really_ think that I would have got to where I am with Geralt right now if I hadn’t put myself out there, if I hadn’t practically fucking _flayed_ myself open? Because _he_ sure as fuck wasn’t going to take that risk, was he?”

“Jaskier,” Yennefer says. She doesn’t know what she wants to say.

Jaskier’s watching her, that infuriating _softness_ still blazing in his eyes. “Do you want him, Yennefer?” he asks.

Yennefer grits her teeth. “You _know_ the answer.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Going to need to hear you say it.”

“Jaskier.”

“ _Yennefer_ ,” Jaskier answers shortly, and he isn’t joking, now, isn’t soft, isn’t playful. “If I’m wrong, if I’m crossing a line, then tell me and I’ll stop. I swear, I’ll stop. I don’t want to push you to do something you don’t want to do – fucking hell, Yennefer, I _know_ how hard it is to forgive that arsehole, and if you’re not ready for that, then that’s fine.” He pauses, studies her for a second, and his fingers squeeze gently around hers. “But if you are,” he says, softer, “then I need you to tell me.”

“Why?” Yennefer says, sharper than she really intends. “To satisfy your insatiable need to _meddle_?”

Jaskier blinks, releases her hand. “No,” he says, his voice suddenly guarded. “No, it’s because I care about you, Yennefer. And I care about Geralt, too. It’s because I’m the only one who’s seeing this from both sides at the moment.” He pauses, looks down at his hands, still resting close to hers on the tabletop. Even when she snaps at him, Yennefer realises with a flood of regret, even when she tries to push him away _exactly_ how Geralt did on that mountain top, all those years ago, he doesn’t pull away. “Right now, you’re both miserable,” Jaskier says eventually, cocking an eyebrow at her in an attempt at levity. “Which is shit for me, I’d like to point out. There’s only so long I can put up with the two of you _moping_!” His expression softens. “I’d just like to try to help you find some peace with each other.”

Yennefer’s heart twists, and she takes his hand, runs her fingertips across the raised, hard skin of his callouses. “I thought this wasn’t about you?” she asks, light and joking, an apology, an olive branch.

That guardedness vanishes like it was never there in the first place, and Jaskier entwines their fingers, squeezes his acceptance. “ _Everything’s_ about me, you know that,” he demurs, then flashes her a lopsided smile. “I want you to be happy, Yennefer,” he says. “Geralt, too. And I’m pretty sure that, this time around, you two can figure it out.” He smirks. “With my help, of course.”

Yennefer eyes him suspiciously. “Isn’t being in the middle of this a little strange for you?”

“Oh, do you mean how I’m currently trying to persuade you to confess your undying love for my current lover, the man we spent all those years bickering over?” Jaskier asks, grinning, then shrugs. “Not particularly. There’s a lot of love in the world, Yennefer. More than enough to go around.” He laughs. “Plus, as much as I do love that witcher stamina of his, I _am_ only human. It’d be nice to have someone else to take up some of the slack when I’ve been fucked silly and _really_ need a nap, but _someone_ wants to keep going until morning.” He grins. “I’ll just send him next door to you.”

Yennefer smiles at that, and then, for a long moment, just watches the gentle, rhythmic sweep of Jaskier’s thumb across the back of her hand. “I want him,” she says eventually, barely louder than a whisper, the hardest thing she’s had to say in months. “I want to try, at least.”

The smile that floods Jaskier’s expression is warmer than the midsummer sun. “I’m going to talk to the innkeeper,” he says, which, in Yennefer’s opinion, is a _slight_ non-sequitur. “We’ve only got one room at the moment,” Jaskier continues by way of explanation. “One bed that I’ve been sharing with Geralt, and a pallet in the corner for Ciri. I’m pretty sure I saw the brothers who were in the room next door on their way out of town this morning, so I figure that, given we’re in the middle of the off-season right now, there’s probably not many tourists who could’ve checked in. We should be able to get the room.” His smile turns a little wicked. “Me and Ciri will be within shouting distance if anyone tries a light spot of kidnapping in the middle of the night, which Geralt will appreciate – but the two of you will be able to enjoy a little… privacy. Which I imagine you’ll _both_ appreciate.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “I’m not you, bard,” she says, but lightly, teasingly. “I’m not just going to leap into bed with him the moment he’s stumbled out some three-word apology that I’d _laugh_ at if it came from anyone else.”

Jaskier’s gaze is knowing. “Yeah, you will,” he says, and waggles his eyebrows. “Because trust me, Yennefer – the make-up sex is _fantastic_.”

Yennefer laughs, then squeezes his hand once more and lets go. She abruptly feels oddly bereft – and she studies Jaskier for a moment, the brightness of his eyes, the slightly-too-long tousle of his hair, the tilt of his head and the not-so-faint bruise that she can just see peeking above the collar of his thick winter jacket. “Thank you,” she says, before she can stop herself. “I’m fairly sure that I wouldn’t be here without you.”

Jaskier’s smile twists a little. “Think of it as me paying you back.”

“For rescuing you from Nilfgaard?” Yennefer asks.

Jaskier scoffs. “ _No!_ ” he says, mock-offended. “I’d hope that you’d come and rescue me from _that_ kind of nonsense without any promise of repayment. No, _this_ is for the mead.”

Yennefer cocks an eyebrow. “I thought that was in exchange for the violet gin you gave me before winter?”

Jaskier frowns at her. “But _that_ was me paying you back for the sparkling Beauclair white you bought in Novigrad that time.”

“I only paid for that,” Yennefer points out, “because of all the ale we drank on your tab in Skellige.”

Jaskier pulls a face. “I _actually_ skipped out on that tab,” he says, to his credit looking a little guilty. Yennefer glares at him, and he holds up his hands. “Sorry! I spent all my money on that fancy inn room – which, I might add, you took advantage of as well. Don’t think I didn’t notice you stealing the complimentary slippers.”

Yennefer sniffs. “I have no need to steal complimentary slippers from _Skellige_ , Jaskier,” she drawls, ignoring the fact that, actually, she’s pretty sure those slippers are currently at the bottom of her travelling bag. She’ll have to be careful not to wear them while Jaskier’s around. Can’t have him knowing he’s right.

“I know you don’t,” Jaskier says. “Doesn’t mean you _didn’t_ , Yennefer.” He points an accusing finger at her. “And don’t think that I’ve forgiven you for stealing my boots in Vizima, either! I had to walk through the city barefoot and hungover until I found a decent fucking shoemaker.”

Yennefer shrugs. “You can prove nothing, bard.”

Jaskier splutters, appalled.

It’s another half an hour or so before Geralt and Ciri return from their adventure to the blacksmith, and Yennefer whiles away the time with her favourite pastime: teasing Jaskier until he’s red in the face and can’t stop laughing. The look that Geralt shoots them when he ducks back into the common area is more than a little bemused, but then Ciri’s coming dancing back to their table, a dagger with a glittering green hilt in her hand, and Yennefer has more important things to think about than Geralt of Rivia. Jaskier leaves them to go barter with the innkeeper while Ciri tells tales of the winter just gone—it was a lot of eating, training, and taking the piss out of Geralt, from what Yennefer can tell—and Yennefer listens with a soft smile curling her lips. She’s not sure that she regrets not being there, exactly, because she knows she wouldn’t be able to spend a whole winter cooped up in the mountains with a bunch of witchers without _killing_ someone – but at the same time, Ciri boasts about Coën taking her on midnight raids on the pantry and Vesemir praising her fencing footwork and, well, a sour taste slicks itself across the back of Yennefer’s tongue.

Ciri pauses, for a second, and looks down at her hands. “But,” she starts, a little more hesitant, “they couldn’t help me with everything.” She looks up, her expression tight. “I have these dreams sometimes,” she says, halting, awkward, “and when I wake up, the bed has moved across the floor and all the windows are flung open. Even now, out of Kaer Morhen – Jaskier had to shake me awake last night because the walls were trembling.”

There are tears in Ciri’s eyes, and Yennefer feels her heart clench. She stands, extends her hand to Ciri. “Come,” she says, softer, gentler. “We’ll talk about this, but not here. Show me to your room?”

Ciri takes her hand without hesitation, and leads her upstairs.

Yennefer thinks she knows what the problem is even without the tricks and tests she gets Ciri to perform for her, and as she sits in the modestly-furnished room, the small table a mess of Jaskier and Ciri’s belongings, a pile of Geralt’s armour in one corner, her initial suspicions are confirmed. Ciri can conjure a ball of flame in her palm, can lift a wooden chair without touching it, can pluck thoughts out of the surface of Yennefer’s mind with very little effort – but every time she does, Yennefer can feel how little true control she has, can feel stray threads of Chaos fizzing in the air and crackling in her fingertips. It builds with everything Ciri does, making the room practically thrum with magic, vibrant and overflowing, and eventually Yennefer has to hold up her hand, stopping her. “It’s your control,” she says, firm but not unkind. “Your control is extremely poor, Ciri – I thought we spoke about this before you went to the witchers for the winter? You _have_ to practice.”

Ciri’s jaw sets. “I _have_ been practising,” she says, bristling a little. “But the dreams are worse than they were before the winter. They’re stronger.” Her hands are tight at her sides, fingers dug into her thighs. “I know you taught me ways to keep my power under control, but they’re _not enough_. And I don’t want to hurt anyone, not again.” Her hands are shaking. “I really don’t.”

“Alright, Ciri,” Yennefer says, as soothing as she can. “Take a breath. There are shielding techniques I can show you, mental blocks that will help. They take time and energy to be maintained, and they are not simple to learn – but they _will_ help.” She pauses, studies Ciri for a moment. “Can you promise me that you will give me your full attention on this matter? That you won’t distract yourself with playing at being a witcher when I need your focus?”

Ciri frowns. “I’m not _playing_ —”

“You have immense power, Ciri,” Yennefer interrupts. “No matter how well you wield a sword or how many monsters you slaughter, you will _always_ have that power, and you will _always_ need to control it. You can put down a sword, if you so choose. You can stop slaying monsters. You _cannot_ put aside your connection to Chaos – and if you don’t learn to control it, to _properly_ control it, then you _will_ bring harm to those around you.” For a second she thinks about Jaskier, shaking Ciri awake from her nightmares, human and breakable in the face of such _power_. “I do not mean to frighten you,” Yennefer says, quieter, “but I need you to take this seriously.”

“I do,” Ciri answers, eyes bright. “Please, teach me. I’ll focus, I swear I will.” Her chin lifts, insistent. “I’m here, aren’t I? Tell me what to do.”

Yennefer pauses, her jaw tight. “You do realise, Cirilla,” she says, “that what I have to teach you cannot be mastered in a day?” Ciri opens her mouth, ready to jump in, to protest, and Yennefer holds up a hand. “I don’t just mean that you need to practice exercises and control. I mean that, for the rest of your life, you will be learning – _always_ learning, every day, every moment. If you want to reach your potential, and if you want to ensure that the people around you are _safe_ , you will continue to learn, to grow. You cannot just have a couple of lessons and know everything. This is your life now.”

Ciri’s expression flickers through a myriad of emotions, changing so fast Yennefer can barely parse them. After a moment, her bright, young face settles into a mask of determination. “I know,” she says, solid and serious. “I know, Yennefer.”

Yennefer nods. “Good,” she says, then indicates the space next to her on the bed. “Sit. We’ll begin immediately.”

They spend the rest of the afternoon in that room, snow streaming past the windows and fire crackling merrily in the small grate. It’s not exactly the _ideal_ location for a lesson in constructing barriers against Chaos, but Yennefer manages to catch the few minor bursts of raw power that Ciri can’t hold back herself, disperses them harmlessly before they can do anything inconvenient like tear the roof off the inn. She imagines they’d probably get in trouble for that. By the time that darkness has fallen, Ciri is exhausted and Yennefer is starving, but they’ve made good progress.

“You did well today,” Yennefer says, pride brimming up in her tired heart. “ _Very_ well.”

Ciri’s answering smile is a little sluggish, but warm nonetheless. “Can we get something to eat now?” she asks, which demonstrates such a keen grasp of the _real_ priorities in life that Yennefer would never dream of saying no.

Geralt and Jaskier are sitting at the same table in the common area downstairs, looking comfortable enough that Yennefer’s pretty sure they haven’t moved all afternoon. Jaskier greets them brightly when they come down the stairs, then goes to speak to the innkeeper, and within five minutes they’re brought bowls of hot stew, fresh bread, butter and a plate of small honeycakes that Ciri immediately monopolises. The food is basic but surprisingly good—Yennefer’s had worse honeycakes at royal _banquets_ in the past—and it satisfies that gnawing hunger in her belly, leaves her satiated and warm, comfortable and surprisingly content, Jaskier’s shoulder pressed up against hers, her feet tangled with Ciri’s under the table.

They spend the evening like that, in camaraderie and comfort, with no ulterior motive, no complexities, nothing except the warmth of the fire and the soft music of their laughter.

It’s late when Jaskier gives Geralt a pointed look, then clears his throat, stands with a flourish. “Ciri,” he says, bright and clear and very unsubtle about what exactly he’s up to. “Want to come up to our new room and take up where we left off last night? The lute is a cruel mistress, and she demands constant practice in the pursuit of perfection.”

Ciri’s answering grin is far too knowing for Yennefer’s liking. “Of course!” she says, bounding out of her seat. “I have lots of questions about… strings. And singing. Things like that.” She grabs Jaskier by the sleeve, drags him away across the common area – and when they get to the bottom of the stairs, she looks back, mischief sparkling in her eyes, before Jaskier ushers her upstairs.

Yennefer meets Geralt’s gaze, bold and brash. “They’re not subtle, are they?” she says, her heart beating harder in her chest.

Geralt hums. “Subtlety isn’t Jaskier’s specialty.”

Yennefer laughs softly. “Dijkstra and his cronies must have been smoking something rather special when they decided to recruit him for the bloody Redanian secret service.”

Geralt shrugs, a lop-sided, one-shouldered affair, and studies her, surprisingly intense. “He can be devious when he wants to be,” he says, low and rumbling – and, oh, Yennefer abruptly realises that this is the first time they’ve been alone together since that night in her tent on the mountaintop. Geralt is still and steady, watching her with those golden-yellow eyes. “Yen, can we talk?”

“Not here,” Yennefer answers, glancing at the pair of drunken traders at the neighbouring table. “Upstairs?”

Geralt nods, and follows.

The scattered belongings have been hurriedly cleared off the table and the small pile of bags in the corner has significantly reduced in size since Yennefer was last in here. There’s snow piled high in the window, now, and the fire has guttered to embers, lighting the room with a soft glow. Yennefer watches as Geralt stokes the fire, then lights a handful of candles, some on the table, some on the windowsill. The light is warm, encompassing. She’s pretty sure that Jaskier would describe it as romantic.

Geralt stops, his shoulders tight. “Yen,” he says, quiet, pausing.

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Geralt,” she answers, and leaves it there.

Geralt looks oddly frustrated, and he makes a noise that’s halfway between a sigh and a grunt. Yennefer’s pretty sure that he’s trying to figure out how exactly to start this conversation but is coming up short, and she could take pity on him, she supposes, could give him an opening – but, frankly, she’s quite enjoying watching him struggle. His face twists through half a dozen expressions, and then he sighs again, looks down at his hands. “Yen,” he starts, then stops again, and his lips draw back in a snarl.

“Geralt,” Yennefer says in answer, a little wry, and then all of a sudden it hits her just how _ludicrous_ this whole scenario is, and she laughs, sharp and high. Geralt looks up at her, startled, and that just makes it worse because he’s a _witcher_ , he’s a fucking _monster hunter_ , and here he is, in a candlelit room in Ard Carraigh, looking awkward and uncomfortable and not knowing what to say because he can’t quite figure out how to talk about his _feelings_.

Yennefer sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, puts her head in her hands, and keeps laughing.

Geralt stares at her for a moment longer, clearly not quite knowing how to deal with this new turn of events – but then he relaxes, smiles a bitterly self-deprecating smile, and sits down next to her. “I suppose I deserve that,” he says, gruff but affectionate at the same time.

Yennefer brushes away an errant tear, careful not to smudge the kohl around her eyes. “Yes, you do,” she says, and oh so carefully nudges her shoulder against his. “Go on, Geralt. I’m listening.”

Geralt smiles at her, his golden eyes catching in the firelight.

They talk long into the night, until the windowsill is almost entirely covered in snow and the candles on the table have burned down to artful puddles of wax. It’s not easy, not by a long shot, because there’s so much pain between them, now, pain and history and bad decisions, and there’s more than one moment where Yennefer clenches her teeth and has to force herself not to just get up and leave – but she remembers what Jaskier told her, remembers what he said. Being vulnerable is a good thing. Being vulnerable is how they move forward, so she stays, and she talks, and she suppresses the recurrent urge to just punch the idiot witcher in his idiot, djinn-wishing mouth.

But she doesn’t.

And they talk. About his wish, about his lies, about his betrayal, and then about her hurt, her detachment, her anger. He apologises in awkward, pausing, grimacing words, and they’re not pretty, they’re not dripping with honey, but she can hear the honesty in his voice, raw and naked. Yennefer doesn’t know if she forgives him, she really doesn’t, and, really, she’s not sure if she’ll ever forgive him because by making that wish, he took her choice from her. She loves him, she always _will_ love him, but she’ll never know if that love came from _her_ or if it came from a genie in a fucking bottle. She tells him that, too, sees his expression still, sees his eyes shutter, sees the self-hatred build in his heart – but she’s had time to come to terms with it.

That’s what she needed, she realises. She needed time.

Yennefer reaches for Geralt, rests her fingers on his wrist. “It’s done,” she says. “It’s done, Geralt, and I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to move forward.” She hesitates, her mouth dry. Vulnerability, flaying her open for everyone to see. For _him_ to see. “I want to move forward with you,” she says. “If that’s what you want.”

“It is,” Geralt answers immediately, almost before the words have left her lips. “Fuck, Yen, _of course_ it is.”

Yennefer’s heart patters quick and hard in her chest. “Good,” she says, trying not to think about how her voice trembles. “That’s good.”

Geralt’s expression is warm, his eyes soft. He turns his hand over, catches her fingers, holds them tight – and all he’s doing is holding her fucking _hand_ , but nonetheless it sends a familiar thrill down her spine. She’s missed his touch. “Yen,” Geralt says, holding her gaze. “I want you to know,” he starts, then pauses, his nostrils flaring. “I want you to know that you’re special to me,” he says after a moment. “My life changed for the better when I met you. I know I’ve made mistakes, and I know I’ll probably make more in the future. But you…” He pauses, offers her the warmest, happiest smile she thinks she’s ever seen. “You are so beautiful,” he says, almost hesitant, more than a little awkward, and Yennefer pushes back the familiar pang of bitterness that always follows such sweeping superficiality. She knows what he’s trying to say with his stuttering, uncomfortable openness. She knows he means well. “The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” Geralt says, “or will ever see. When I’m with you, I know that all is right with the world, and I know that there will never be another who makes me feel the way you make me feel.” The words are fast, so fast it’s almost overwhelming, like he’s planned out exactly what to say, like if he doesn’t say it exactly how he’s supposed to, he won’t say anything at all. “I love you,” he says, open and aching, “more than I ever thought I could.”

His voice is gruff and oh so very heartfelt, and it settles deep in Yennefer’s heart, gripping her so tight it’s almost painful. She doesn’t bother to stop the smile that spreads across her lips, doesn’t try to hold back the joy that she feels spilling through her soul – but then she pauses, thinks for a moment. The hesitancy in his voice, the awkwardness, and then the unexpected eloquence of the words, an eloquence bordering on… poetry?

Yennefer blinks. “Geralt,” she says. “Did…” She trails off for a moment, licks her lips. “Did Jaskier tell you what to say to me?”

Geralt opens his mouth, then closes it again, and Yennefer’s pretty sure that if witchers could blush, he’d be red as a tomato right now. “He’s better with words than I am,” he finally manages, clearly embarrassed. “He… gave me some advice, said he wanted to make sure that I didn’t fuck this up again.” His lips press into a thin line. “Are you angry?”

Yennefer laughs, shakes her head. “I’m not angry,” she says, touching his cheek with her free hand, her fingertips catching on the roughness of his stubble. “It’s… sweet.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow. “ ‘Sweet’?” he asks, disbelieving.

“Believe me,” Yennefer says, lips twisting, “I’m as surprised as you are that I’m not using that word as an insult.” She pauses for a second, mapping the line of his jaw with her fingers. “Do you mean what you said with your bard’s voice?” she asks, smiling.

“Every word,” Geralt answers softly.

Just for a moment, Yennefer lets herself imagine it, Geralt and Jaskier, sitting together in the common area downstairs, thighs pressed together under the table, the smell of wax and woodsmoke heavy in the air, Jaskier crafting words of love and longing and gifting them to Geralt to give to her. Jaskier, murmuring _more than I ever thought I could_ , his fingers trembling on Yennefer’s cheek, his mead-sweet breath warm against her lips.

Geralt is watching her, still and smiling, and Yennefer abruptly realises that that image isn’t her imagination at all, no, it’s his _memory_ , plucked without thinking from the surface of his mind, offered up for her like a prayer. The sweetness of Jaskier’s breath, the warmth of his fingertips. The love in his eyes and his words, overflowing like lavender-scented bathwater spilling from a bright copper bathtub.

Yennefer leans forward and kisses Geralt, hard and soft all at once, runs her hands through his silver-white hair and feels him groan against her lips. He pulls her into his lap, her knees on either side of his hips, his hands rough and solid and so astonishingly tender, and the thrill that shudders through her as he pushes her dress up around her waist, hands hot against her bare thighs, is enough to set her heart on fire.

“ _Yen_ ,” Geralt whispers against her lips.

Yennefer hears every word he wishes he knew how to say and knows them all to be true. She presses him back down into the bed, and kisses him again.

Later, when they’re wrapped up together in a pile of sated limbs and satisfied smiles, breathing hard and sticky with sweat, Yennefer buries her face in the crook of Geralt’s neck and laughs softly to herself.

Geralt shifts under her, his fingers carding through her hair. “That’s not the response I usually get,” he rumbles, amused.

Yennefer runs her fingers across his scarred chest, refamiliarising herself with the responses of his body, the quiet hitch in his breath, the so-slow beat of his heart. “It’s just funny,” she says. “Jaskier was right.”

Geralt pauses, craning his neck to look down at her. “About what?”

“The make-up sex,” Yennefer answers, a smile twitching her lips. “It _was_ fantastic.”

Geralt sighs. “I think I liked it better when you two couldn’t stand the sight of each other.”

Yennefer presses a lazy kiss to the arc of his neck. “Those days are long gone,” she says, settling against his side. “We have better things to do now than fight over you.”

Geralt hums. “Shame.”

Yennefer smiles, just a little, and closes her eyes.

She sleeps better than she’s slept in a long time, Geralt’s arm wrapped around her shoulders, his chest warm and firm under her palm, the sound of his regular, even breathing calming her more than she dares admit. Her dreams are blurred, abstract things, but they’re not marred by blood and death like they usually are, and when she wakes, the muted morning light spilling in through the snow-covered window, she feels… _rested_. It’s a good feeling.

Geralt’s still asleep, his expression relaxed and open as it never is when he’s awake, and she studies him for a moment, half-remembering the last time they woke up in bed together in a tent on the side of a dragon-infested mountain. Things were different, then, but the warmth that spreads through her heart is the same.

Yennefer buries her face in the pillows to hide her smile and when she breathes in she can _smell_ them, twined together, her perfume mixed up with Geralt’s distinctive aroma of sweat and horse and something metallic, a little like blood. It’s less obnoxious than Yennefer remembers, somehow sweeter – and she breathes in again, a little more alert. There, underneath the horse and gooseberries. A whisper of lavender, of linseed oil, of expensive wine and long evenings spent in candlelit bars, of dipping their feet in the cold waters of Lake Vizima and laughing when they realised it was _far_ too cold to go for a swim, even in midsummer.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer murmurs, then smiles wryly. Of course the bed smells like him – he’s been sharing it with Geralt since they arrived in Ard Carraigh. Really, she should probably be more offended by that than she is—she’s no one’s second choice, after all—but it’s not just anyone, is it? It’s Jaskier. It’s because of him that she’s here in the first place, it’s because of him that she came back.

Yennefer spreads her palm across the pillow, smiling a little wider.

Geralt wakes a little while later, his eyes heavy molten gold in the cold winter light. He reaches for her, his lazy touch sparking fire up and down her skin, and, well, it takes them another hour or so to get out of bed after that.

When they finally make it down to the common area, freshly bathed and, in Yennefer’s case, perfectly put together, it’s a little after midday. Jaskier and Ciri are already downstairs, of course, bent over a battered chess board, and they’re so engrossed that neither of them looks up until Yennefer sits down next to Ciri, leans closer, and whispers in her ear, “Your knight, Ciri. You see?”

Ciri’s expression lights up. She moves her knight decisively, clacking it down on the chipped old board. “Check,” she says, bright and victorious.

Jaskier narrows his eyes at Yennefer, then shifts up on the bench to give Geralt room to sit beside him. “That’s very unfair,” he says. “We never said that we were allowed _advisors_.”

“You’re just upset that you don’t get Yennefer,” Ciri says, beaming. “Geralt is rubbish at chess.”

Jaskier sighs dramatically as Geralt settles next to him, his arm stretching out along the bench behind them, his hand automatically finding purchase against Jaskier’s back. “As always, I’m doing all the work for both of us,” he says to Geralt, who just looks amused. “Right, okay. My queen takes your knight, princess. _Check_.” He shoots Yennefer a challenging look. “What do you say to that, sorceress?”

“She doesn’t need to say anything,” Ciri says, smug, and moves her rook along two squares. “Check _mate_.”

Jaskier stares at the board, forehead furrowed, then says, flat and annoyed, “ _Fuck_.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow, trying not to smirk. “She doesn’t need my help to thoroughly trounce you, Jaskier,” she says, and Geralt snorts a laugh. “Now, aren’t you going to fetch us some breakfast?”

“More like lunch by now,” Jaskier points out, then lightly slaps Geralt’s stomach. “Stop grabbing at me, you brute, and go get the lady something to eat. Filip is doing some _fabulous_ mutton pies today, I can really recommend them.”

“Yeah, they’re really good,” Ciri adds, clearing away the chessboard. “Can I have another one?”

Jaskier beams, and turns to Geralt. “Four mutton pies, please,” he orders. “And I’ll take a mug of the mulled cider, too.”

“Isn’t it a little early to start drinking?” Yennefer asks, eyebrow raised, as Geralt ambles off to fetch their pies.

“Mulled cider is _barely_ alcohol,” Jaskier scoffs. He hands Ciri the last few pieces, watches as she slots them back in the chessboard’s box, then the two of them share a meaningful glance. Yennefer is really starting to dislike those glances, but she doesn’t have time to protest before Jaskier’s looking up at her, his forehead a little furrowed. “So,” he says, leaning forward, elbows propped on the table. “We’re not going to be in Ard Carraigh much longer, I’m afraid – I’ve got some bookings down south that I have to get to, and Geralt and Ciri need to chase contracts for a while, make some money.” He cocks his head, and his smile turns a little sly. “Given how well your conversation last night went, we were wondering if you were planning to come with us for a while?”

Yennefer feels her cheeks flush, unbidden. “And how do you know how well our conversation went?”

“We could _hear_ how well it went through the wall,” Ciri points out, grinning.

There are twin spots of colour high on Jaskier’s cheeks. “ _Really_ not appropriate behaviour around our young witcher,” he says, clearly trying to hold back a smile. “I had to cover her ears.” Ciri rolls her eyes, but doesn’t deny it. “Getting back to the question at hand,” Jaskier says. “What will it be, Yennefer? Want to spend some quality time with your daughter, your lover, and your… bard?”

Yennefer hears the pause but doesn’t quite know what to make of it, so she decides to do what’s always best to do with confusing thoughts and feelings, and ignores it. “I don’t have any pressing business to attend to elsewhere,” she says, keeping her voice level, keeping the mounting happiness pushed down deep, hidden away. “So I suppose I could stay for a little while.”

Ciri makes a happy, excited noise and wraps her arms around Yennefer’s waist.

“Oh, _brilliant_ ,” Jaskier says, beaming, as Geralt returns with a tray full of pies and cider. “You can help me convince Ciri to let me _sort out her awful hair!_ ”

“My hair is _fine!_ ” Ciri protests.

Yennefer shakes her head firmly. “I would not be seen _dead_ with someone sporting that haircut,” she says, undercutting the severity of her words with a gentle squeeze of Ciri’s shoulders. “If I’m to accompany you, I _insist_ that you allow us to sort it out.”

“I wouldn’t argue with her, Ciri,” Geralt says, passing out the pies, his shoulder pressed up against Jaskier’s, his booted foot nudging Yennefer’s ankle under the table. “She always gets what she wants.”

“ _I’ll_ say,” Jaskier mutters into his cider, and the look in his eyes leaves Yennefer in no doubt as to _exactly_ what he’s referring to. She kicks him under the table, and he makes a scoffing, offended noise that, for some reason, warms Yennefer’s heart.

They only stay in Ard Carraigh for another day or so, long enough for Yennefer to find a white stallion that isn’t too exorbitantly priced and for Geralt to restock whatever foul-smelling concoctions he stores in his bulging saddlebags. There’s also enough time before they set out on the road for Jaskier to sit Ciri down with a mirror and a pair of scissors, and while he’s not the best barber Yennefer’s ever met, he does a passable job. Yennefer keeps catching Ciri running her hand through her new haircut, studying her reflection in ice-rimed windows with a pleased-looking smile, which she supposes is really the important thing.

They set out from Ard Carraigh at dawn, Ciri perched in the saddle in front of Yennefer, Jaskier strolling along at Geralt’s side. He chatters a _surprising_ amount, given that he’s the only one of them on foot, and Yennefer finds herself spending most of the morning staring at him in silent admiration – because he’s been extemporising on the subject of archaic Kaedwenian ballads for the last hour and a half with very little by way of hesitation, repetition, or deviation from the topic at hand. It’s so dull it’s almost interesting.

What’s _most_ interesting, of course, is how Geralt just… listens? And occasionally responds with more than his standard grunt or hum? With actual _word_? That are _relevant_?

Yennefer’s not sure if she’s impressed or horrified.

It’s cold enough for the next few days that they don’t stop much. They move as quickly as they can between towns and villages, waystations and borrowed barns, always making sure they have a roof over their heads for the night, because Geralt’s a witcher, sure, and Yennefer’s more than capable of keeping herself warm with the fire of her own Chaos, but Ciri and Jaskier are eminently, achingly human. Yennefer feels Ciri press back against her through the cold afternoons and the colder evenings, swathes her in her cloak as much as she can, and she watches as Jaskier flexes his numbing fingers, his cheeks pinking, his lips turning the faintest shade of blue.

The only shelter they can find that night is a rickety old barn in the middle of the countryside, icicles hanging from the eaves and snow piled high around the exits, and Yennefer wraps herself around Ciri, mumbles words under her breath that will keep them both warm but that will leave her drained in the morning. She wishes she could extend them to Jaskier, too, but it would leave her far too weak – and she looks up to tell him, to see the pain in his eyes, the chatter in his teeth.

Jaskier’s eyes are closed, his forehead furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin white line. He’s swathed in two cloaks and a blanket, and Geralt is bodily wrapped around him, his chest pressed to Jaskier’s back, holding him tight, their legs intertwined. Geralt’s nose is buried in the crook of Jaskier’s neck, and he’s murmuring something that Yennefer can’t hear, his breath steaming in the cold air. Jaskier smiles, a tiny, shockingly warm expression, his eyes still closed, and Yennefer watches him relax into Geralt’s arms, his breath misting clouds in the icy air.

Geralt looks up, after a moment, sees Ciri safe and warm in Yennefer’s embrace. The worried creases around his eyes soften, just a little, and he nods to her, settles back to his single-minded task of keeping Jaskier warm – and Yennefer’s gaze darts between them, _both_ of them, wrapped so close and so tight that it’s hard to tell, in this dim light, where one ends and the other begins.

The further south they get, though, the warmer the weather turns, and before long the never-ending carpet of snow gives way to lush, green grass, to tracks lined with daffodils and crocuses, snowdrops and bluebells. They stop for long breaks in the afternoon, and Yennefer teaches Ciri how to tap into the magic of growing things, how to channel the energy of the blossoming world, while Jaskier braids flowers into Roach’s mane and composes biting little couplets about Geralt’s grumpy, begrudging facial expressions – and it’s not courts and world politics, it isn’t the patterns of the Continent or the making of its future, but it’s a good life, in its own way.

Yennefer guides Ciri through the transmutation of the elements, earth into fire into water into air, watching as they dance above her hands in the brightness of the springtime sunlight, and firmly reminds herself that this is a _good life_.

Most of the inns they stay at are small, out-of-the-way affairs, barely able to scrape together a room with two bedbug-free beds, let alone anything more luxurious – or, for that matter, _private_. Yennefer’s already experienced Jaskier’s snores and Geralt’s sleep-grunts, of course, and individually they were never really an issue, but their cacophonous symphony, coupled with Ciri’s twitches and more-than-occasional night terrors is… a lot. She finds herself blinking herself awake on the back of her horse from time to time, swaying a little in the saddle, and once she genuinely falls asleep, only to be woken by the gentle touch of Geralt’s hand on her shoulder. “Yen?” he asks, his voice soft.

Something thrills through Yennefer at his touch, something excited, almost _nervous_ , and she starts, pulls away before she really realises what she’s doing. “Sorry,” she says, a little rough. “I must have drifted off.”

Geralt’s forehead furrows, and his hand brushes down her arm, touches her fingers. Her skin practically burns where he touches her. “You sure?”

She manages a smile. “I’m sure.”

Geralt hums, and lets her go. She feels oddly bereft at the loss, and she itches to reach out to him, to pull him back – but she doesn’t, though, because what is she? Needy? Wanting? She’s fucked him across the damn Continent, she doesn’t need to be _nervous_.

Jaskier wanders up on the other side of her horse, idly plucking his lute. “A bit dozy there, Yennefer?”

Yennefer looks down at him, eyebrow arched. “I just didn’t sleep well last night.” She pauses, smirks. “Your snoring might be at times frankly more melodic than your singing, but it isn’t what I want to hear in the middle of the night.”

Jaskier presses his hand to his heart, mouth gaping wide in mock-horror. “ _Yennefer!_ ” he exclaims, and Geralt laughs softly. “And here I was, thinking that you had a _smidgen_ of musicality in you – I am _appalled_.”

“Snore less, and I won’t need to appall you,” Yennefer answers, serene as the springtime landscape around them, and spurs her horse on ahead.

The weeks roll by in an easy, sedate pattern. They travel during the day, Yennefer trains Ciri in the afternoons, and from time to time in the evenings Geralt disappears off on a contract or Jaskier entertains the patrons of the local taverns. Yennefer finds herself getting used to spending days in the saddle and evenings in the smoky, filthy common rooms of inns, to the lack of privacy and the lack of cleanliness, to the noises her companions make when they sleep and the… _smells_ they produce when they’ve eaten too much of the wrong thing. Honestly, _Ciri’s_ the worst culprit on that particular front: maybe it’s something to do with a digestive system that was brought up on the fare they once served in the Cintran crown court, but the quantity and _volume_ of her… emissions are honestly staggering at times.

When she mentions it to Jaskier after a glass or so of not-competely-dreadful ale in a tavern one night, after Ciri’s gone to bed, of course, he just starts singing some filthy ditty about the perils of sex after large amounts of beans that makes her seriously consider magically sewing his lips together. Geralt, of course, finds the whole thing terribly amusing, which doesn’t help.

Yennefer sits at Ciri’s side, that night, and watches her sleep. She runs her fingers through her shorn-short hair, already growing down to her collar with the vibrancy of spring, and listens to the rhythm of her mind, the echo of her thoughts. The mental barriers that Yennefer has been teaching her are firmly established, now, keeping the unruliness of her thoughts and her Chaos at bay, and their work from here on in will be practicing how to lower those barriers when Ciri needs to, how to dip in and out of that well of power she has to draw on without cracking apart under the pressure. Ciri is already demonstrating an aptitude for it – as good with her magical gifts as she is with those tourmaline-hilted daggers that she never puts down.

It’s simple work for a sorceress of Yennefer’s skills. It’s… _very_ simple work.

Ciri’s forehead furrows as she sleeps, distress creeping into the surface of her sleeping thoughts. Yennefer runs her hand through her ash-blonde hair, whispers meaningless platitudes into the quiet of the night, and calms her as much as she can.

They’re nearly at the border with Redania when the April storms hit, and hit hard. After two full days trudging onwards through relentless, hammering rain, thunder rumbling in the distance and lightning shrieking overhead, at midday on the third day Yennefer puts her foot down, points out to Geralt that his Child Surprise and his bard are both utterly personifying the phrase _drowned rat_ , and then leads them to nearby inn.

In what Yennefer can only assume is the gods deciding to smile upon her for the first time in her long life, the inn is _fancy_ , a boutique establishment with a sneering young clerk on the front desk and expensive, tasteful furnishings in the warmly-lit interior. Geralt looks distinctly out of place standing in a corner of the foyer, dripping from his hair, his armour, and his swords, but Jaskier just starts pulling off his boots with a grimace and pouring the collected rainwater out into one of the inn’s many ornamental plant pots. Ciri sprawls out next to him in a chair that’s upholstered in expensive red leather, already looking like she owns the place.

Yennefer barely graces the clerk on the desk with a glance. “Two rooms,” she says, running a hand through her wet hair, squeezing the excess out to pool on the marble floors. “With bathing facilities, if you have them.”

The clerk’s gaze flickers to Geralt. “I’m afraid,” he says, icily polite, “you’ll have to look elsewhere. We’re currently full.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “In storm season, in _this_ part of Kaedwen?” she asks. “I don’t think you are.”

“I can assure you, we have no rooms that would be suitable for your party,” the clerk answers, his hands folded prissily and primly on his gilt-edged desk.

Oh, Yennefer is not about to let _this_ slide. “And what exactly do you mean by that?” she asks – and if he wants to be icy, she’ll _show_ him icy. Her voice is blizzard-cold.

“Yen, it’s alright,” Geralt says softly.

“I really don’t think it is,” Yennefer answers, not looking at him, holding the clerk’s gaze. “Are you telling me that you are turning us away because one of my companions is a _witcher_?”

To his credit, the clerk doesn’t flinch. “We don’t accept his sort here,” he says. “There are a few taverns more appropriate for his stature a few miles down the road. I can provide you with directions, if you’d like.”

“What I would _like_ ,” Yennefer drawls, “is two rooms, both with bathing facilities, and for this _insult_ , we’ll have complimentary meals provided for the duration of our stay.”

“I really don’t think that’s possible,” the clerk says, snidely apologetic.

Yennefer can’t help it: a smile flickers across her lips, bitter and biting. “This inn is owned by Nowak Ksander, yes? It’s one of several he has in this area.”

The clerk blinks. “He is our esteemed patron, that’s correct.”

Yennefer hums, nods to herself. “I know Mr Ksander,” she says. “I helped him out a few years ago, a little issue with his wife, if you understand what I mean. A rather _personal_ issue, which he took great pains to keep secret. The kind of thing that business rivals wouldn’t appreciate – or _political_ rivals, for that matter, given that I understand he’s started to dip his toe into the mayoral elections in Ban Gleán.” A flicker of unease shows in the clerk’s face. Yennefer doesn’t give him an opportunity to speak. “As a self-made man, he doesn’t have the same kind of support network that other candidates do, or the same level of respect – so I somehow don’t think that he would take kindly to any… adverse rumours about his performance in the bedroom. And I _really_ don’t think he’d take kindly to the fact that one of his own employees could have single-handedly _prevented_ the spread of those rumours by the simple expedient of not acting like a complete and utter fucking idiot.”

The clerk bristles. “Ma’am,” he starts, pitchy and threatened, “I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

“I am Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Yennefer drawls, and feels a deep, visceral thrill of satisfaction when the clerk’s eyes almost pop out of his skull. “I imagine you’ve heard of me.”

The clerk abruptly bows so low that he almost presses his forehead into his desk. “Of course, my lady,” he says, fumbling for the keys.

Yennefer looks back at Geralt with a sharply victorious smile. He’s watching her, still damp, still bedraggled, still very much looking like he’s just spent two days tramping around in a rainstorm – but there’s a light in his eyes, now, a _heat_ that burns all the chill of the storm away. Yennefer feels her heart thud harder in her chest, feels an answering heat start to coil in her belly, slick and insistent.

Jaskier steps between them and plucks one of the keys out of the clerk’s unresisting hands. He shoots Yennefer a knowing glance, and says, “Me and Ciri will give you two some… _privacy_ , shall we?”

Yennefer is too caught by the light in Geralt’s eyes to protest.

They’re barely through the door of their room before he’s on her, touch burning hot, silent gratitude on his lips.

The rooms are, as it turns out, rather nice – not that Yennefer gets much of a chance to look around until much later in the afternoon. While Geralt dresses, she pads around in nothing but a spare shirt she stole from his bag, inspecting the paintings hung on the polished mahogany walls, running her fingertips over the rich plushness of the soft furnishings. She opens a door that leads out to a small balcony covered over with a slate-tiled roof, to a table with a mosaic inlay and curlicued metal chairs, and for a second she just listens to the patter of the rain and the clatter of the thunder.

Boots sound on the marble floor behind her, and she turns.

Geralt’s fully dressed, armoured up and swords strapped to his back. Yennefer is abruptly very aware that the hem of his stolen shirt barely reaches mid-thigh, that the neck gapes and slips off one shoulder, that she very much looks like she’s just spent the afternoon being fucked into the mattress and through the wall and in all kinds of other extravagant ways – while _he_ looks like he’s off to fight in a bloody _war_. Yennefer cocks an eyebrow, very deliberately does not cover herself. “Leaving so soon?” she asks, and swallows down the pang of hurt that she can’t quite forget. “I thought we’d moved beyond that stage in our relationship, Geralt.”

Geralt hums, covers the space to her in a few silent strides, pulls her to him and kisses her, warm and searching. “A contract,” he murmurs against her lips. “In the last village. I saw it when we rode through this morning.”

Yennefer pulls back. “A _contract?_ ” she asks, a little disbelieving.

“Drowners,” Geralt says, nodding, then glances out at the rain. “Appropriately. Shouldn’t be difficult, so I’m going to take Ciri with me. She needs experience with actual contracts – there’s only so long she can train against dummies and bags of straw.”

“Geralt—”

“She’ll be safe,” Geralt says, then kisses her again. “I swear.”

Yennefer can see in the set of his expression that there’s no point in arguing with him, not about this. She grits her teeth, breathes out through her nose. “Drowners,” she repeats.

“Drowners,” Geralt confirms, then his lips quirk in a wry smile. “I’m pretty sure it’s drowners.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Just go,” she says, pulling away, turning back to the balcony. “If you get her killed, I’ll kill you.”

Geralt hums. “Enjoy the room,” he says, pressing a kiss to the exposed span of her shoulder. “The bath looks nice. Fancy.”

“It should be, given how much we’re paying,” Yennefer answers, eyebrow arched.

Geralt’s hand tightens momentarily on her hip, a gentle farewell, and with a rustle of leather and a creak of his boots, he goes.

Yennefer stands there a moment longer, an odd sort of haze blurring in her mind, then steps out onto the balcony, sits on one of the ornate metal chairs and discovers that, actually, it’s oddly comfortable. She thinks about the room inside, about the soft sheets and the luxurious bathtub, the rich furs and the fire burning in the marble hearth, but doesn’t go in. She stays out on the balcony, sheltered by the jut of the slate-tiled roof from the worst of the storm, and listens as it crashes around the walls of the inn.

A knock sounds at the door, and she absently answers, “Come in.”

“Yennefer?” she hears Jaskier call. “You in here?”

“Out on the balcony.”

“You have a _balcony?_ ” Jaskier appears in the doorway, stripped down to his shirt sleeves, bottle of white wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. “We don’t have a balcony!” he enthuses, then actually looks at her, blinks, and looks quickly away. “Do you want to, ah, put some more clothes on?”

Yennefer reaches out, takes the wine bottle from him. “You’ve seen me in worse states of undress,” she says. “Corkscrew?”

Jaskier produces one from his pocket, hands it over and sits down. “Got this from that lovely gentleman downstairs,” she says, settling the glasses on the table. He smiles, a little wry. “Funnily enough, he’s got a lot more polite since you had your little chat with him.”

Yennefer bares her teeth in a smile and pulls the cork out of the bottle with a sharp pop. “How unexpected.”

Jaskier laughs, takes the bottle from her and pours for them both. “I have to say, I _like_ you when you’re biting strangers’ heads off in defence of our witcher,” he says, and his voice is light and breezy as it always is, yes, but Yennefer can’t quite shake the feeling that there’s something he’s not saying. She picks up her glass, sips, and puts it to one side. “Not that I don’t like you normally, of course,” Jaskier hastens to reassure her. “But you really do have a certain something _extra_ when you’re all… intimidating.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “Are you telling me you’re attracted to strong women, Jaskier?”

“I’m attracted to strong people in general,” Jaskier corrects. “I would have thought _that_ was obvious, given the whole Geralt situation.”

“True,” Yennefer allows and sips her wine, then pauses, studies the pale liquid in her glass. “This is good, isn’t it?”

“I never thought much of Kaedwenian wine before,” Jaskier answers, “but yeah, it is. From a local vineyard, apparently. I’m going to have to make a note of the name.”

“Not sure how widely stocked Kaedwenian wine is across the Continent,” Yennefer observes.

Jaskier shrugs. “That’ll just make it all the more exciting when we _do_ come across it.”

The inn’s forecourt is spread out below them, the flagstones glimmering in the pouring rain, and Yennefer watches as the doors to the stables open and Geralt comes trotting out, Ciri sitting behind him on his horse with her arms locked around his waist. The rain’s too strong for her to hear what they’re saying but Ciri is clearly _vibrating_ with excitement, leaning around Geralt’s back to shout at him through the storm, her bright hair flashing in the lightning strikes until she pulls her hood up over her head. Geralt says something, unheard, and they wheel around and gallop out of the forecourt.

At Yennefer’s side, Jaskier shakes his head, buries a smile in his glass of wine. “My father,” he says after a particularly loud rumble of thunder, “bonded with me over hawks, not _drowners_.” He pauses, takes a long sip, then murmurs, mostly to himself, “Not that he was particularly _good_ at it, admittedly.”

Yennefer thinks about running her fingers through Ciri’s hair as she sleeps, about the pride that swells up in her heart every time she watches her grow more into her power – but then she thinks about the itch of unstretched Chaos that’s growing under her skin every day, about how she’s still turning Istredd’s dissertation over in her mind weeks after she read it for the first time, about how it felt _so fucking good_ to put that petty little clerk in his place with nothing more than a _hint_ at the kind of political power she can really wield.

This is a _good life_. But it’s not _her_ life.

Yennefer drinks, rolls the stem of her glass between her fingers. “ _My_ father,” she says, staring out into the flashing lightning, the rolling thunder, the words pouring out of her before she can stop them, “ignored me, neglected me, and sold me to Aretuza for a handful of coins.” Her lips curl, but it isn’t a smile. “I thought I’d be different.”

Jaskier is quiet for a long second, then out of the corner of her eye Yennefer sees him put his glass carefully down on the table. “What are you talking about, Yennefer?” he asks, and there’s a carefulness in his voice that she hasn’t heard in a _long_ time.

Yennefer downs the rest of her glass of wine, hastily pours another. “Forget I said anything,” she says, a sour taste in her throat that’s nothing to do with the wine.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Jaskier says.

“ _Jaskier_.”

“Yennefer!” Jaskier counters, then leans across the table and snatches her wineglass right out of her hand. “You don’t want me to be sensitive and gentle with you? Fine. What the _fuck_ are you talking about?”

“Give me back my wine,” Yennefer snarls.

“It’s _my_ wine,” Jaskier snaps, then, to prove a point, tosses back her glass. “I paid for it, and I’m not sharing any more with you until you explain exactly you mean by _that_ bullshit statement.” Yennefer makes a grab for the wine, but when he wants to, Jaskier can actually be remarkably fast. He steals both glasses and the bottle away, stashes them on the floor, out of her reach, then turns to face her, jaw set. It’s a familiar expression. “Let’s try this again,” he says, and the thunder rumbles in an angry counterpoint to his words. “We’ve just watched our gloriously manly witcher ride away to bond with his surrogate daughter over, of all ridiculous things, _drowners_. I’ve just made a brief allusion to my own not-so-wonderful relationship with my father, which you’ve just echoed – along with a really _horrific_ and frankly far-too-quickly-brushed-aside mention of being _sold_ into a life of magic and pillow-fights which, you know, we’re going to come back to later. Because I _swear_ that you just consciously implied that you’re, what, as shitty a parent as a man who _sold you_?”

Yennefer grits her teeth. “You don’t understand,” she says, tight and bitter. “You _couldn’t_ understand.”

Jaskier’s expression doesn’t soften. “Then tell me,” he says, less a friendly entreaty than an _order_ – and flashes her a bright smile. “I’ll give you your wine back when you do.”

A laugh wrenches itself from Yennefer’s lips. “You know I can just take the damn wine,” she says, and all of a sudden her shoulders slump, a tension that she’d barely noticed was building in her limbs all but gone. “You can’t stop me if I really try, bard.”

Jaskier eyes her for a second, then seems to like what he sees. “I figured,” he says, then retrieves the glasses and the bottle. “Go on, then,” he says, gesturing at her expansively, his eyes keen in the dimness of the storm. “Explain it to me.” There’s steel in his voice, insistent and strict, and Yennefer knows that, if it were anyone else, she’d rankle against that. If it were Triss, or Tissaia, or, fuck, if it were _Geralt_ , she’d rankle against it because she doesn’t need anyone to tell her what to do, that’s the _last_ thing she wants. She doesn’t need their judgement, doesn’t need their orders, doesn’t need them to think that they know better than her.

But Jaskier’s sitting there, glass in his hand, and he’s waiting for an answer.

If there’s one thing Yennefer has learned about Jaskier over the years that they’ve spent drinking together in assorted taverns, bars, and wheat fields across the Continent, it’s that he’s the last person in this world who’d judge her. Mainly because she knows far too much about his own failings and foibles, admittedly, and is more than happy to blackmail him with that knowledge, but that’s neither here nor there.

Yennefer drinks, feels the weight of his gaze lingering on her like heavy velvet drapes. “It’s been barely a few weeks that I’ve been with you,” she says, her glass chill beneath her fingertips, cooling even further in the crash of the storm, “and I’m already _desperate_ to leave.”

“And by ‘you’,” Jaskier says, head tilted to one side, “you mean Ciri?”

“I mean all three of you,” Yennefer corrects sharply, then deflates, drinks again. Her glass is already half-empty, and if she keeps drinking at this rate they’re going to need at least another bottle. “You, and Geralt, and Ciri. Especially Ciri.” She breathes out sharply, drinks. “Ciri is… magnificent,” she says eventually, her tongue thick in her mouth like she’s drunk already. “She is skilled and she is clever and she is eager to learn. She takes to Chaos better than anyone I’ve seen in a long time – and that’s alongside learning witchering from Geralt and… whatever it is you teach her when you share a room with her.”

Jaskier snorts, whirlpools the wine in his glass. “A bit of music, a bit of other things,” he says wryly. “Lots of clever ways to insult people, and more than a few snippets of bad language that I only picked up when I went to Oxenfurt. You know, the important things that a witcher-sorceress _really_ needs to know.” He laughs again. “And _this_ is why you and Geralt are her parents and I’m just… the fun uncle.”

Yennefer winces. “Want to swap?”

“Not for all the lavender mead in Lyria,” Jaskier says. “And I’m pretty sure that, in reality, your answer is the same as mine.” He leans forward, his elbows on the table, glass held between the elegant bracket of his fingers. “Come on, Yennefer,” he says. “Talk to me.”

Yennefer spreads the fingers of one hand wide, studies the furrows of her knuckles, the veins in the back of her hand. “I spent so long,” she says, not looking at him, not meeting his gaze because if she does she knows she won’t be able to keep going, “wanting to be a mother, wanting a chance to take back what they took from me when I… _graduated_ from Aretuza.” She ladles the word full of condescension, dripping with scorn. “That’s why I followed that arsehole Sir Eyck on that _disaster_ of a dragon hunt.”

Jaskier shudders melodramatically. “May he rest in shitless peace.”

“It’s why I did so many things,” Yennefer says, ignoring him. “It’s why I did _most_ of the things I’ve spent my life doing – because if I could take back that choice, if I could reverse the decision that they made me make, then maybe I could… _feel_ it.”

When she doesn’t elaborate, Jaskier pushes. “Feel what?”

And that’s the question, isn’t it? The question that stabs right to the heart of every front and every facade that Yennefer’s ever built for herself – and she’s hidden behind those walls so long, kept herself separate, kept herself apart, that all it takes is that one, simple question for the whole fucking edifice to come tumbling down. “Anything,” Yennefer answers, her voice cracking at the sheer _absurdity_ of that answer, the fucking _melodrama_ of it – and, oh, Jaskier might not have mocked her thus far, might have feared her and maybe even respected her, but that’s surely over now. _Anything_ , what kind of fucking overdramatic shit—

“Go on,” Jaskier says, and his voice is gentle and calm, yes, but there’s that same steel, just below the surface.

Yennefer looks out at the storm, at the sheeting rain, the burning lightning. “There is something missing,” she says after a moment, feeling the rumble of the thunder in her aching bones. “In my life. In my heart. _Fuck_.” She snarls, drinks heavily. The wine is going to her head faster than it really should do but she hasn’t exactly eaten much today, too preoccupied with the rain and then the arrogant idiot downstairs and then the strength of Geralt’s arms to give much thought to food. “It feels like there’s a hole in my chest,” she says, watching the dark bruises of the stormclouds, the jagged slashes of the lightning. “A darkness. I’ve been trying to fill it all my life, with magic, with politics, with power.” Bitterness surges in her throat. “With… _motherhood_.”

“With Ciri?” Jaskier asks, his voice quiet.

Yennefer sits up straight, smacks her wineglass down so hard on the mosaic tabletop that she’s honestly surprised it doesn’t shatter. “You cannot repeat this to Geralt,” she says, her heart all of a sudden caught in her throat. “Any of it. He wouldn’t understand, not about this.”

Jaskier holds up his hands, clearly startled by the vehemence in her voice. “I won’t,” he says, eyes wide. “Of course I won’t, Yennefer, you _know_ I won’t.” He’s silent for a moment as she pours wine into her glass again, splashing it over the rim and onto the tabletop. “There’s plenty of things you’ve told me that I haven’t told him,” Jaskier says – then snorts a laugh. “Plenty of things we’ve _done_ , too – my naiad.”

Yennefer rolls her eyes. “Don’t call me that,” she says, but lighter, as affectionate as she can manage right now with adrenaline and pain flooding her veins. She sits back, sets her glass against her bare thighs, cherishes the sharp chill. “With Ciri,” she says eventually, quieter, a little sadder. “Geralt told me about her on the mountain – at least, that he had a Child Surprise. And at that moment I knew that, whoever this child was, I could help them. I could _care_ for them, I could… be a mother to them.” She grits her teeth, closes her eyes. “I knew it,” she says. “I knew it more than I’ve known anything in a very long time. And I knew that this was it, that _this_ was what would make me… fuck, _whole_.”

Jaskier’s watching her, intense, intent. He doesn’t speak.

“I love her,” Yennefer says, because it feels like it needs to be said. “I would die for her, Jaskier. I would lay down my life for her without even thinking about it.”

Jaskier tilts his head to one side. “I’m sensing a ‘but’.”

“But I’m _bored_ ,” Yennefer blurts, and, fuck, she’s horrified with herself the second she says it. She ploughs on, feeling self-hatred boiling up in her heart with every venomous word she spills. “Living like this, wandering through the middle of nowhere, eating burned rabbit and foraged berries – and the _smells_ , gods, Jaskier, I _can’t_ spend my life like this! There’s so much _more_ , the Continent is so much bigger.” Her heart is racing. She can’t bring herself to meet Jaskier’s gaze. “I’m supposed to be _devoted_ to her,” she says, “but I’m _not_. I need more than this, I can’t spend the rest of my life teaching Ciri paltry magic and following Geralt around on monster hunts, I _can’t_.”

She stops. Her breathing is heavy.

“Do you know why we’re travelling to Redania?” Jaskier asks, no judgement in his voice, no scorn, no disdain.

There are tears in Yennefer’s eyes, sharp and biting. She brushes them away. “Oxenfurt,” she says shortly. “You’re teaching there for the summer term.”

Jaskier nods. “My biennial _how to tame a witcher_ course,” he says, and when she looks up at him, he’s smiling. “The official title is _Poetic Hyperbole In Historiography_ , of course, but most of the students only take it because they want to hear about how I managed to bag the mighty Geralt of Rivia as both my muse and my lover.” He shrugs. “They’re always surprised by how rigorous my marking is. They think it’s going to be easy, but it actually has the lowest proportion of first class results of any course at the Academy.”

Yennefer stares at him. “Jaskier, what—”

“The Oxenfurt term is only a couple of months,” Jaskier interrupts. “But then there are the midsummer festivals – I’m thinking Novigrad this year, or maybe Cidaris, because it’s been a while since I put Valdo in his place. And then there’s wedding season, so I’ll be booked up for a good month or so after that, usually at least until early autumn.”

Yennefer sees where Jaskier is going with this. “That’s not the point,” she says.

“I won’t see Geralt and Ciri for four, maybe five months,” Jaskier says. “At least, not for protracted periods of time. Maybe a day here and there. Sometimes Geralt comes to the festivals, although I don’t know why because he _definitely_ doesn’t appreciate the music.”

“That’s not the _point_ ,” Yennefer snaps. “You go because you want to be there, not because you _don’t_ want to be here.”

“It’s both, actually,” Jaskier says blithely. “I love Geralt, and I love Ciri. But gods, Geralt is fucking annoying sometimes – and Ciri is brilliant, so smart, so bright, and she’s been through _so much_ , but she’s still just a child. Sometimes I need adult company that has broader interests than swords, potions, and suppressing his emotions.” He smiles at her, a little rueful. “It’s why I’ve enjoyed having you with us so much,” he says, then tilts his glass to her. “That, and your impeccable taste in accommodation.”

Yennefer’s mouth is dry. She drinks, to ease the way. “It’s not the same,” she says, shaking her head.

“Why not?” Jaskier asks. “Aside from the fact that I’m a lowly human bard, of course.”

“Because this is supposed to be _who I am_ ,” Yennefer snaps. “Ciri is supposed to be everything to me, she is supposed to _complete_ me. And I can’t even be what she needs me to be, I can’t even be her _mother_.” Her jaw snaps shut, she breathes tight through her nose. “Not like I should be,” she says finally, her voice bitter. “Not like _Geralt_ is. Devoted, all-encompassing. _Committed_.”

“You came all the way to Ard Carraigh for her,” Jaskier says quietly. “You slept in the dirt and travelled in the rain for her.”

“Jaskier—”

“You love her, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, and his smile is crooked, now, tinged with pain. “You love her like your father didn’t love you.” He pauses, just for a moment. “Like mine didn’t love me,” he says, so raw it burns Yennefer’s heart. “And I’m no expert in parenting, but I think that that’s the important thing. So what if you can’t be with her all the time? You’re with her when she needs you to be.”

Yennefer’s heart is twisted and cold in her chest. “But Geralt—”

“Geralt is a very simple man,” Jaskier interrupts, and Yennefer usually _hates_ being interrupted but right now every time he speaks over her, it’s like the storm in her chest calms a little more. “Once you get through all the grunting and repression, that is. He wants to be loved, and he wants to shower the people he cares about with love. That’s it.” He laughs. “Oh, and maybe hunt monsters every now and then. But he’s not like us, Yennefer. He doesn’t need the adoration of an audience like I do, doesn’t need to mould the future of the Continent like you do.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what I need.”

Jaskier smirks. “We both know it is,” he says, then drinks from his glass, studying her. “There is something else I want to say,” he says, a little hesitant. “But I’m only going to say it if you promise not to rip my spine out through my mouth.”

“Very graphic,” Yennefer says dryly.

“This many years with Geralt have given me a keen sense of self-preservation.”

Yennefer laughs. “I know for a fact that isn’t true,” she says. “But in the interest of Geralt’s happiness, I promise I won’t murder you graphically and violently as a consequence of whatever you want to say to me.” She pauses, sips her wine. “I can make no promises about my actions _after_ that.”

Jaskier sighs. “I _did_ say I like strong women,” he says, half to himself. “Not sure at what point in my life my type became _people who can kill me without lifting a finger_ , but here we are.” A strange expression flickers over his face, strangely nervous, almost _shocked_ , but it disappears almost as quickly as it came. “Anyway,” he says, a little flustered. “Yes, so. Advice. This hole of yours.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow. “I thought you were supposed to be good with words?”

Jaskier looks vaguely pained. “Okay, so that maybe wasn’t my best opening line,” he says, then straightens, sighs. “Yennefer, what I’m trying to say is that this… _absence_ you feel, the one that you say you’ve been trying to fill all this time—” Yennefer snorts. “— _say nothing!_ —this _void_.” He pauses, sighs again. His eyes are bright in the light spilling out from inside, and the storm rumbles quietly in the silence. “The only person who can make you feel whole is you, Yennefer,” Jaskier says. “Being a mother to Ciri, being a lover to Geralt – that’s not going to complete you. Neither, I imagine, will becoming magical sorceress ruler of the Continent, although I don’t have quite so much experience with that, so I can’t be completely sure.”

Yennefer’s heart is ripped open and raw. “Then what will?”

“Fuck if I know,” Jaskier answers, smiling a lopsided smile. “I’m a bard in his not-so-early forties who’s still wandering around with a witcher who has more difficulty expressing himself emotionally than my fucking _father_ does. When I’m at Kaer Morhen, I miss Oxenfurt _so much_ – the students, the other professors, the gorgeous architecture and the people who challenge me, who make my music better. But then when I’m in Oxenfurt, teaching and composing and performing, the only place I want to be is Kaer Morhen, with the grumpy witchers and their crumbling, hauntingly-beautiful mountain home.” He shrugs. “Not knowing what you want doesn’t make you a monster, Yennefer,” he says. “It makes you _human_.”

“I’m _not_ human,” Yennefer says sharply.

“In this, you are,” Jaskier answers. “You’re no different from the rest of us – messy and complicated and just trying to figure it out as you go along.” He studies her for a moment. “You don’t have to try to be perfect,” he says, quiet enough that it’s almost lost beneath the pattering of the rain. “You’re good enough as you are.”

There’s something swelling in Yennefer’s chest, something warm and rich and intoxicating, spiralling out through her limbs, sparking in her fingertips and heating in her palms. “That’s good to know,” she says, sliding sideways into humour because that’s easier than listening to whatever’s growing in her heart, “given that I’m already perfect.” She drinks, long and slow, feeling the burn of the alcohol down her throat. “No improvements needed.”

Jaskier’s lips quirk in a small, warm smile. “None at all,” he says, something heavy in his gaze, just as warm as whatever’s coiling in Yennefer’s chest. “Are you going to stop being ridiculous now?”

“That depends,” Yennefer says, leaning forward to top up her glass.

“On what?” Jaskier asks, looking suspicious.

“On whether you’re going to tell me where I can find your father,” Yennefer says lightly, watching surprise blossom across Jaskier’s face, “so I can give him _exactly_ what he deserves for how appallingly he’s treated his son.”

“There’s no need for that,” Jaskier says, and he’s smiling, yes, but it isn’t exactly _happy_. “It was just a dash of your standard noble childhood neglect, you know?” His expression tightens. “Sweetened with a sprinkling of emotional abuse and the occasional night spent… well, locked in the cellars when I’d done something _particularly_ unbecoming of the family name.” He shrugs, drinks his wine. “He never laid a hand on me, if that’s what you’re worrying about.” His gaze is heavy. “And he never tried to _sell_ me.”

“My father’s dead,” Yennefer says, ignoring the old knife that twists in her heart. “Beyond my control. Yours, on the other hand, is very much still alive, and therefore still capable of suffering.”

“Yeah, but where’s the fun in _that_?” Jaskier sighs. “I’d much rather wait until he’s old and ridden with disease – gout, syphilis, that kind of thing. Then I can go back to Lettenhove, prance in through the doors with the youthful looks that I _definitely_ got from my mother’s side, and shove my happiness in the old goat’s face.”

Yennefer nods thoughtfully, tapping her fingertip against her lips. “So,” she says. “Lettenhove.”

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says, amusement tugging at his lips, “I should _not_ have to say this to you, but here goes anyway – do _not_ murder my ass of a father.”

Yennefer sighs dramatically. “You spoil all my fun,” she says, then looks significantly at the now empty wine bottle that’s sitting on the table between them. “Also, we’re going to need some more wine.”

Jaskier laughs. “Talking about your feelings _is_ extremely thirsty work,” he says, then tosses back the last of his glass and gets to his feet. “You, stay here. I’ll be right back.”

“Be quick,” Yennefer instructs, watches him disappear out of the door, then turns back to the storm. The rain hasn’t let up, still lashing down in vertical stripes, sluicing off the roof of the balcony like a waterfall, and she stares out at the stormclouds, bruised purple, deep blue, swirling grey, staining the early evening sky. It’s roiling and unquiet, but at the same time she’s finding it oddly soothing. She drinks slowly, savouring the taste, feeling the familiar warmth of inebriation seeping through her limbs. She’s a little cold, if she’s honest, the cool air pricking goosebumps in the bare skin of her legs, but the wine wraps its jacket around her, cosying her, comforting her, and she’s enjoying the luxury of wearing nothing but Geralt’s shirt too much to give it up. It’s decadent, sitting on a balcony in a storm like this, half-naked, wine-drunk. It’s decadent and it’s lavish and the only thing that’s missing is—

“A second bottle of delicious Kaedwenian wine,” Jaskier says, putting two bottles on the table, “and, as a treat, my even _more_ delicious lavender mead.”

—Jaskier.

Yennefer groans. “You _know_ I hate that mead,” she says. “It’s so fucking sickly.”

“Yeah, but I know what you’re like when you’re a bottle deep,” Jaskier points out. “You’ll drink _anything_ by that point, except—”

“That stout in The White Hart in Oxenfurt,” Yennefer completes. “Because it’s even more disgusting than the mead.”

Jaskier shrugs. “I quite like it,” he says, uncorking the new bottle of wine. “Top up?”

“Please.”

Jaskier pours for them both, then picks up his glass, holds it out. “To absent fathers,” he says with a bitter twist to his smile. “May they remain absent, and quickly contract the worst case of gout the Continent has ever seen.”

Yennefer touches her glass to his with a soft clink. “And to… filling a hole,” she says, and drinks.

Jaskier snorts. “I’ll drink to _that_ ,” he says, a lascivious lick in his voice, and the thunder rumbles loud in the sky around them.

They drink, and they talk, and they laugh with an abandon that lights Yennefer’s heart on fire. They get through the second bottle of wine and half the mead before Yennefer decides that, actually, the lavender mead is just as bad as The White Hart’s stout and sends Jaskier back downstairs for more wine. He comes back with two bottles and a plate of cold cuts, but by that time the wind has picked up, driving the rain under the balcony’s roof, and they retreat inside, Yennefer staggering and having to catch herself against Jaskier’s shoulder so she doesn’t fall. He laughs, catches her with an arm around her waist, then deposits her on the messy bed, puts the plate next to her and hands her the bottle. “Yennefer,” he says, very serious and somehow ecstatically laughing all at the same time. “I have a request.”

Yennefer eats a slice of ham, takes a mouthful of wine from the bottle. “What do you want, Jaskier?”

“I want to braid your hair,” Jaskier says immediately. “I’ll be honest, I’ve been thinking about it for years. It’s just so _thick_ , and Geralt never lets me braid his because this _one time_ I braided flowers into the back without telling him and then he tried to be all manly and aggressive when I started a bar fight and, well, this guy only stopped punching me in the gut because he started laughing at the idea of a witcher with flowers in his hair—”

“Yes,” Yennefer says, eating a slice of roast beef. “You can braid my hair.”

Jaskier makes an excited noise, then practically leaps on the bed. He settles himself behind her, his legs stretched out to either side, then his nimble hands start combing through her hair, working out the knots tangled by the storm’s wind. It feels _good_ , his fingertips rubbing at her scalp, gently tugging her hair into complex patterns, his touch glancing against the skin of her neck, her shoulders, and she nestles backwards into his embrace, seeking that contact, that comfort. She drinks from the bottle, then holds a chunk of roast chicken over her shoulder, feels Jaskier lean forward and take it from her hand with his teeth. His breath is warm and damp against her fingers.

A shudder shivers through Yennefer’s body, and she tugs a fold of the blanket over her bare legs to stave off the cold.

“I fucking _love_ your hair,” Jaskier murmurs, one of his hands coming to rest gently against the expanse of her shoulder that’s bared by Geralt’s oversized shirt.

Yennefer’s drunk, and the sheets around them still smell like sex and Geralt. That’s the only explanation for the unexpected curl of heat that’s spreading through her belly.

“Yennefer,” Jaskier says, a strange note in his voice, his thumb brushing carefully against the nape of her neck.

The door opens with a clatter and Geralt comes tramping in, dripping water and something that Yennefer is going to assume is drowner blood. Ciri’s at his side, looking just as bedraggled as he does, but there’s a beaming smile on her face that jolts straight to Yennefer’s heart. “I killed a drowner!” she crows, bouncing up and down, boots squelching with every step. “It was _gross_.”

There’s an affectionate smile on Geralt’s lips, and he squeezes her shoulder. “You did well,” he says. “Now that we’ve found them, why don’t you go back to your room, get cleaned up? I’ll come show you the best way to get the blood out of your clothes.”

Ciri plucks at her damp clothes, then smiles up at him, sunny and bright. “Vesemir is going to be _so_ impressed,” she says with the confidence of the young, and disappears away down the corridor.

“Good to see you didn’t get her killed,” Yennefer says, and Jaskier’s hands have slipped away from her shoulders so she gets to her feet, the blanket sliding off her legs, her feet flat against the cold marble floor. She stalks towards Geralt, still feeling that strange heat in her belly, the alcohol weaving through her like comets in the night sky, and leans up to kiss him, long and lingering. “I’d say we missed you,” she says, bottle of wine still dangling from her hand, “but I’m afraid we didn’t.”

Jaskier laughs, bright and musical, and Yennefer realises that he’s alongside her, his cheeks flushed, his hair mussed. He presses a single fingertip to Geralt’s chin, turns his head, then kisses him in turn, deeper, longer. Yennefer sees a flicker of tongue, and when Jaskier breaks away, his lips are slick and red. “And,” Jaskier says, grinning happily, “although we’re glad you’re back, we’re going to need you to go away now.”

Geralt’s expression is somewhere between amused and confused. “You are?”

“We are,” Yennefer agrees, then flashes the bottle at him. “We’ve got the rest of this to finish.”

“And I’m not done with her hair,” Jaskier adds.

“And there’s the food.”

“Oh, yeah, that chicken is _good_.”

“In short,” Yennefer says, easy and light, feeling the alcohol in her blood and the happiness in her heart, “go away and leave us to our wine.”

Geralt looks between them, a frown creasing his forehead. “I guess I’ll stay with Ciri tonight,” he says slowly. “If that’s what you want?”

“Perfect!” Jaskier says brightly, then snatches the bottle of wine from Yennefer’s hand and takes a drink. “Come on, witch. The plaits are coming out, so I’m going to need to start again. _Honestly_ , Geralt, it’s like you don’t even _care_ about Yennefer’s hair.”

“Shocking,” Yennefer deadpans, and takes the bottle back.

“I’ll just… leave you to it, then,” Geralt says, still looking between them like they’re insane. “Should probably go have a bath.”

“Yeah, you do smell a bit,” Jaskier says. He’s gone back to the bed already, and he drops down heavily, then pats the space in front of him. “Come on. I’ve got work to do.”

Yennefer plants her fingers in the centre of Geralt’s chest, gives him a light push, and goes back to Jaskier’s side. She sits on the edge of the bed, flicks her half-braided hair back over her shoulder, and suppresses a drunken sigh as Jaskier’s fingers get back to work. Geralt stares at them a moment longer before leaving them to it, and Yennefer closes her eyes, cants her head back, listens to Jaskier’s incessant soft chatter, his words just on the edge of slurring, as he works miracles with her thick, dark hair.

They finish the wine, and the cold meats, and then by that point Yennefer is drunk enough that the lavender mead is tolerable once again, so they finish that, too. It’s dark outside, the storm still crackling around the roof of the inn, and they’re sprawled out across the sheets, not even really talking anymore, Jaskier humming something under his breath, Yennefer staring up at the canopy of the bed, studying the golden tassels with the sober solemnity of the extremely drunk. “You know,” she says, licking her lips, “this is a _comfy_ bed.”

Jaskier doesn’t answer, and he’s stopped humming, too. Yennefer looks over at him incuriously to discover that he’s fast asleep, his mouth open, arm thrown over his eyes and a sheet pulled lazily up over his other side. She studies him a moment longer, drenched in the rush of his breathing, the rich alcohol-smell of his sweat, then looks back up at the tasselled canopy. “ _Very_ comfy,” she murmurs to herself, then pulls at the blankets, wraps them around herself, and goes to sleep.

In the morning, Yennefer wakes to a dry mouth, a throbbing head, and Jaskier’s arm thrown heavily across her waist. She blinks, groans, then elbows him off and says, “I’m going to take a bath.”

Jaskier just grumbles something incoherent, rolls over and goes back to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**[PODFIC MOBILE STREAMING LINK | 01:37:46](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_%20pt4.mp3)**

[full podfic downloads available in chapter 7]

* * *

_four._

The heat of midsummer sits heavily over the castle and its gardens, the sky blazingly blue, the sun a white-hot eye overhead. It makes the nobles gathered for the duke’s banquet lazy and indolent, lolling around the manicured grounds under parasols, wafting themselves with oversized fans, and a small army of sweating servants flit between them, some with chilled drinks, some with cups of tea, others with sweets and pastries and baskets of fragrant-smelling fruit. Young couples promenade along leafy walkways, elderly parents sit at their ease around the leaping waters of the waterfall gardens, children whoop and lose themselves in the winding paths of the topiary maze. It’s a picture of summertime ease, of lavish opulence and unnecessary excess.

Yennefer sits on a shady veranda as the afternoon winds itself to a close, silently wishing for just the _faintest_ hint of a breeze. It’s so fucking _humid_ , the air practically dissolving into sweat the moment it touches her skin, and for the past few days it hasn’t been so bad, no, there’s been enough wind that the heat has been bearable – but now the weather has changed, and the heat presses down without any promise of relief.

And her fucking wine isn’t even chilled.

She’s stripped down to as few clothes as she can possibly wear without being genuinely indecent, a light, gauzy chiffon skirt paired with a shortened bodice with nothing underneath that leaves her stomach bare, the laces done up a little too loose across her breasts. She’s privately glad that she was invited to a summer banquet hosted by a duke of Toussaint, rather than any of the Northern Kingdoms proper – she can wear _significantly_ fewer items of clothing here without being kicked out of the court. Not that the duke _would_ kick her out, she thinks, mainly because she’s fairly sure that he’s trying to sleep with her but also because her good word carries enough influence nowadays that even nobles want to get on her good side.

That might also have something to do with the havoc that she wreaked six months ago in Lettenhove, of course, but she couldn’t _possibly_ speculate.

Yennefer goes to pick up her wineglass, but then feels the warmth of the glass under her fingertips, the sticky lipstick marks around the rim. Her lips twist in a moue of distaste and she pushes the glass away.

Out in the grounds, across the rolling lawns and in the hidden corners that the gardeners have crafted to hide the indiscretions of the highest families in the land, the afternoon’s frivolities are winding down. The banquet itself will begin in only a few hours, and it’s time for the high-born ladies to return to their rooms, to primp and preen, to paint their faces and oil their bodies and lace themselves into whatever complex local fashion they’ve chosen to flaunt tonight. It’s a pageant, this kind of thing, an opportunity for the high and mighty to demonstrate to their peers exactly how high and mighty they are – to drip with jewels, to drape themselves in the most expensive velvets, the most intricate laces, the rarest brocades, to glimmer with more gold than a poor peasant family will see in their lifetime.

Yennefer’s aware that, in reality, her presence here is just another way for the duke to flaunt his _own_ conspicuous power and influence – but, to be honest, she gets food, drink, and a brief holiday in Toussaint out of it, so she doesn’t really mind that much. Use and use alike, after all, and if the upshot is that she has a vaguely loyal Toussainti duke who she can call to heel, she’s more than willing to let herself be used, just this once.

“Yennefer!”

Yennefer twists in her chair, a smile already spreading across her lips. “Jaskier,” she says, as warm as the sun overhead, and accepts the kiss he presses to her cheek. “What are you doing here?”

There’s a flush to his cheeks, the ends of his hair are curling from the sweat that beads his neck, and he sits in the chair across from Yennefer with a flourish. “I’m performing at the banquet tonight,” he says, then smirks, tosses her a wink. “And passing on a handful of… let’s go with _memos_ to our glorious host.” He grimaces, his expression as quicksilver-sharp as it ever is, and plucks at his shirt, fanning himself with his free hand. “Although I’m currently regretting _both_ of those choices, given how fucking hot it is. All I want to do is go and dive into one of those fountains out there, _gods_ , that would cool me down.”

“Not sure the duke would be a huge fan of you dripping water all over his banqueting hall,” Yennefer observes, a little arch.

“Which is why I’m restraining myself,” Jaskier sighs. “I am, however, planning on taking a midnight dip tonight – strip off, go for a swim.” He grins at her. “Fancy joining me?”

“I’m not here to indulge your whims, bard,” Yennefer says.

“No, you’re here to lounge around, drink wine, and generally give the impression that you’d rather be literally anywhere but here,” Jaskier says, his eyes gleaming. “I happen to know for a fact that that’s your speciality, Yennefer.”

Yennefer hums, toying with her glass. “I _would_ rather be anywhere but here,” she drawls. “ _Especially_ given who I hear they’ve hired for the entertainment tonight. I thought the duke had better taste.”

Jaskier makes an offended noise, presses his hand to his chest. “I’m _hurt_ ,” he says. “And here I was, ready to dedicate my entire performance to you.”

“There is literally nothing I would like less.”

“You forget, Yennefer,” Jaskier says, smirking. “I know you, remember? I’ve heard you humming my songs when you think I’m not listening.”

“You have no proof of that,” Yennefer says. “And I’ll deny it if you so much as _imply_ it to anyone else.”

Jaskier laughs. “I won’t need to imply anything,” he says. “I’ll write a song about a violet-eyed sorceress whose voice is as sweet as the song of her favourite lark and sing it in every court you’ve ever visited – and a few you haven’t. It’ll spread like _wildfire_.”

Yennefer scoffs. “I’m not the one you write songs about, Jaskier,” she says. “Wouldn’t a sudden shift from the mighty White Wolf to a bewitching witch be a little jarring for your usual audience?”

Jaskier’s eyes light up. “Ooh, _the bewitching witch_ , I like that! Might have to borrow it.” He pauses, flashes her a sharp smile. “Do you really think that I haven’t already written songs about you, Yennefer?”

“The only songs you’ve written about me,” Yennefer observes, “are the ones where you use me as a literary device to explore your unrequited love for Geralt.”

Jaskier flushes. “That’s _one_ song.”

“Quite a catchy one, though,” Yennefer says, examining her nails. “Sometimes Sabrina whistles it to me when she thinks I’m not paying attention.”

Jaskier grimaces. “In my defence,” he says, “I wrote that while I was still pretty sure that, underneath all that perfume and makeup, you were actually some kind of slimy swamp-monster wearing a human skin-suit.”

Yennefer stares at him. “That’s… actually one of the more creative insults I’ve ever heard,” she says, oddly surprised. “I’m impressed.”

“I had a lot of time to think about it,” Jaskier says, his lips twitching in an uncontrollable smile. “And it was a toss-up between the swamp-monster-in-a-skin-suit idea, and some kind of succubus-bruxa-siren hybrid, you know, that classic misogynistic portrait of the wicked, hypersexualised woman who usually needs to be tamed and punished by a manly, sword-swinging knight.”

“I’m flattered that you went for the swamp monster,” Yennefer says dryly.

“Oh, it’s no reflection on _you_ ,” Jaskier says breezily. “No, anyone at Oxenfurt can tell you that I’m not known for my adherence to classical song patterns – _gods_ , they bore me. I’m much more interested in originality than in any kind of rehash of dull themes that have been done to death a hundred times before.”

“Do you know what bores _me_ , my naiad?” Yennefer asks, lips curling in a smirk.

Jaskier’s eyes are sparkling in the late-afternoon sunlight, his cheeks flushed in the heat, a curl of his hair sticking to his forehead. His shirt is so thin that it’s practically see-through in places, hinting at the muscles of his chest, his dark hair, the surprising slimness of his waist. “Is it me, by any chance?” he asks, lips twisting in a smile.

“You read my mind,” Yennefer deadpans.

Jaskier laughs. “I’m pretty sure that’s your area,” he says, then looks out across the gardens, at the hazy heat and the still-green lawns, at the gardeners who are diligently watering the vibrant summer flowers and the servants who are tidying up all the detritus left behind by the carelessly picnicking nobles. “Well,” he says, running a hand through his damp hair. “I should probably go get ready. Might try to get a little less disgustingly sweaty before I have to dance around in front of dozens of nobles and get disgustingly sweaty all over again.”

“How pleasant.”

Jaskier shrugs. “Well, I can’t get away with dressing _quite_ as scandalously as you, Yennefer,” he says, and casts an assessing gaze down over her outfit, eyebrow raised. “I mean, you’re definitely working it, I’m not saying you’re not, but I’m pretty sure I’ve been to brothels where the girls wear more clothes.”

“Are you calling me a whore, Jaskier?” Yennefer asks, and she should probably be offended, really, but all she is at this exact moment is amused and lazy in the summer heat.

Jaskier pauses, thinks back over his own words. “I think I’m actually saying you’re less respectable than a whore,” he says, forehead creased. “I’ll be honest, it’s very hot and I’m very jealous of your breezy-looking outfit. It makes thinking difficult.” He flashes her a smile. “I’ll come find you once I’m finished performing? I’ll grab us a bottle of wine, and we can see where the night takes us.” He laughs. “I vote the fountains.”

“I’m _not_ getting in a fountain with you,” Yennefer drawls.

“But you will drink my wine?”

“Exactly.”

Jaskier laughs, and for a moment Yennefer just watches him, the brightness of his smile, the summer sheen of his skin, the redness of his lips and the blueness of his eyes. “Far be it from me to question the whims and wiles of Yennefer of Vengerberg,” he says, as over-dramatic and flamboyant as usual. “Try not to cry _too_ much at my performance, by the way – it’s hot, wouldn’t want you to get dehydrated.”

“Go away, Jaskier,” Yennefer orders, and turns her back on him so he can’t see her smile.

Jaskier goes, laughing softly under his breath, and leaves her alone with the heat.

Yennefer goes back to her rooms, after a little while, mainly because it’s significantly cooler inside the castle’s thick stone walls than out in the gardens. She washes, changes into a gauzy, off-the-shoulder black dress that’s just on the right side of completely sheer, then sits in front of the gilt-framed mirror and reapplies her makeup, red lips and violet eyelids and dark kohl traced around her eyes and through her lashes. She dabs perfume behind her ears and across her wrists, then runs oiled hands through her hair, leaving it darkly gleaming and curling in all the right places. Her obsidian star sits comfortably around her neck on its velvet ribbon, and for a long moment, Yennefer just studies herself in the mirror, the perfect symmetry of the makeup, the fullness of her lips, the darkness of her eyes.

She’s not entirely sure why, but she briefly thinks of Jaskier.

The duke’s banqueting hall is sprawlingly large and expensively decorated, intricately-woven tapestries hanging from the walls and fresh rushes strewn across the floor, arrangements of summer flowers winding down the long tables and bright crystal glasses shining at every place setting. Despite herself, Yennefer is mildly impressed, but she’s not about to let the duke _know_ that so she takes her seat at his table with a carefully-cultivated expression of supreme boredom. She’s sitting between the duke’s wife, a mousy thing with thick blonde hair that falls to her waist, and a boorish older man who she thinks might be his uncle but she really can’t be sure because he’s already so drunk that he can barely speak. The mouse-wife offers her a few awkward compliments, the drunken uncle slurs something that sounds like it might be about the architecture of the castle—or about the shape of her ears, she honestly can’t tell—but then the music starts and they all have an excuse to not have to talk to each other anymore.

There’s a small band at the far end of the hall, a piper, a drummer, and a flautist decked out in their finest summer attire – and Jaskier, of course, picking out complicated melodies on his lute without even looking at the strings, singing in that fair, rich voice that Yennefer has spent so many evenings wrecking with vast quantities of alcohol and off-key screeching. It’s actually fairly rare that Yennefer ends up in the same court as Jaskier so she hasn’t had that many opportunities to see him perform to the full extent of his abilities – and as she eats and drinks and makes an art out of ignoring her tablemates, she finds herself more than a little entranced.

Not that she’d tell him that, of course. The last thing he needs is a boost to his already-inflated ego.

The music starts out as lively but innocuous, providing just the right atmosphere for people who don’t know each other that well to make polite conversation and drink perhaps a little more than is strictly necessary. When the food has been served, the band switches to dancing tunes, jigs and reels, and Yennefer watches, amused, as a number of nobles who really _shouldn’t_ be trying their hands at dancing get to their feet, stumbling around the floor with all the grace of newborn deer. One middle-aged man with an overhanging gut and a well-trimmed beard has a cup of wine in his hand as he dances, and he somehow manages to spill the whole thing over himself without getting a drop on the floor. Privately, Yennefer is almost impressed – and when she catches Jaskier’s eye over the bearded noble’s weaving head, she can see the amusement written plain as day in his expression, too.

Jaskier tosses her a wink, and keeps on singing.

The dancers tire, eventually, and when they’re tripping over their own feet on their way back to their tables, Yennefer notices that the sun has finally sunk below the horizon. The music shifts again, away from the manic energy of the dancing to something slower, softer, not quite melancholic but definitely going in that direction. Yennefer finds herself listening to the words that Jaskier sings, songs of love and heartbreak, of longing and yearning, and she smiles to herself, just a little, imagines Geralt’s face if he could hear all the nonsense his bard is spinning about him. The thinly-veiled wolf metaphors, okay, she understands where he’s coming from and the poetic licence really isn’t too excessive, but in the name of all the _gods_ why is Jaskier singing about the velvet beauty of the obsidian-black sky, ‘ _all bejewelled with stars_ ’? If it was a swirling gust of snow, she could maybe accept it, or something about the slow dance of apple blossom in the spring – but has Jaskier somehow managed to miss the fact that Geralt’s hair is _white_?

It hits her like an arrowhead between the shoulder blades.

The song that Jaskier is singing isn’t as slow as some of the others in his repertoire, but that’s not to say that it’s exactly upbeat. It’s slow and sultry, lyrical and languorous, with a soft, lilting melody that Yennefer somehow knows she’ll be humming under her breath for the rest of her life. She listens, rapt, as Jaskier sings of a love that is flawed and imperfect and unreturned, a love that will never be put to one side and forgotten, a love that loves another with all the fire and fury of a cautious, aching heart. He sings of the blackness of the midnight sky and the bruised purple of gathering stormclouds, of being so close but never being able to touch, of the agony of the empty spaces and the ecstasy of shared experience. He sings of sharing so many things, wine and whisky, adventure and ale, and he sings of his own arrogance, his own conceit, because he has so much already but he can’t stop himself from wanting more. He sings of the sweetness of his pain, the ache of his heart, the joy of every stolen touch and every gifted smile.

It’s a love song. Jaskier is singing a love song, pure and unadulterated, and it’s about _Yennefer_.

And it’s not even fucking _subtle_.

Yennefer’s heart is beating so loud in her ears that she can barely think. She’s on her feet before she really knows what she’s doing, everyone at the duke’s table drunk enough that they pay her no attention, and she’s not _fleeing_ the banqueting hall, no, she’s Yennefer of Vengerberg, she doesn’t _flee_ – but she definitely leaves in a hurry, her throat stained with bile, her fingers curled into claws in the skirts of her dress. Jaskier’s attention is elsewhere, fortunately, serenading some dark-haired young marchioness who’s looking up at him with drunken, adoring eyes, and the last thing Yennefer sees before she makes good her escape is that marchioness’ fingers, tracing delicate patterns in the embroidered sleeve of Jaskier’s doublet.

A familiar bitter pain slices into her gut at the sight, a bitterness she’s felt before, felt every time Jaskier flirts with a barmaid or laughs at a knight’s bad joke, and for the very first time Yennefer realises what that pain is. It’s _jealousy_.

“Oh, fuck,” Yennefer mutters to herself, and practically _runs_ out into the grounds.

She loses herself in the gardens, prowling around the rose bushes and the pine trees, meandering between the statues and the topiary, pacing the paths until she comes to a small artificial grove, sweet-smelling pear trees all around, a small fountain whispering quietly in the shadows. It’s a clear night with a full moon, round and shining in the darkness, so the little grove is surprisingly bright, everything coated in a silvery-white light that makes the water in the fountain sparkle. The grass is soft beneath her heels. The air is still warm, but no longer humid.

Yennefer sits on the edge of the fountain, skims her fingertips through the moonlit surface of the water, and feels the memory of Jaskier’s song wrapped around her like spidersilk.

She could be jumping to conclusions. She could be inventing the whole thing, extrapolating from hints that aren’t there, because it’s common imagery, isn’t it? Storms, the night sky, stars, the pain of unrequited love, it’s all very standard poetic fare, you don’t have to be an Oxenfurt professor to know that. He could just be pulling from the broader canon of poetic song-making, creating some kind of pastiche of historical trends in love poetry in order to, what, demonstrate his erudition? It’s just a game. A clever little showpiece that he wrote in some academic soiree at Oxenfurt, and he’s singing it now as a joke, a mockery, a way for him to laugh at his audience even as he delights them and earns his payment.

Except Yennefer heard the sincerity in his voice as he sang.

“Shit,” she says, loud in the moonlit quiet.

And she’s thinking about it, now, thinking about _him_ , and the more she thinks about it, the more she realises that she’s been so _blind_. The delight in his eyes every time he sees her, the easiness of his smiles and the brightness of his laughter – and the way that his touch always lingers, ever so slightly, his fingers at her wrist, his knee bumping against hers under the table. The softness in his expression, the warmth that his presence sparks in her stomach.

Yennefer’s heart is beating out of her chest. “ _Fuck_ ,” she whispers, leaning forward, burying her face in her hands.

His smell on the sheets of Geralt’s bed in Ard Carraigh. The relief in his eyes in the back of that rickety old wagon. His handwriting, looping and scrawling across the back of Geralt’s letter. His fucking _bravery_ in walking up to her table that day in Vizima, Est Est in one hand, heart open and full of hope. His fingers in her hair, his breath against the back of her neck.

His words on Geralt’s lips, saying _more than I ever thought I could_.

Yennefer’s hands are shaking.

“ _There_ you are!”

Yennefer sits bolt upright, her heart seizing in her chest.

Jaskier is swaggering towards her, a bottle in one hand and an easy grin on his lips. He laughs, a little rough, a little hoarse, and waggles his eyebrows at her teasingly. “Had a bit too much to drink, my darling naiad?” he asks, coming to perch next to her on the side of the fountain. “I snagged us a bottle of that fifty-seven Est Est I told you about – found it under one of the tables at the side of the banqueting hall, _gods_ , I wish I had the kind of cash to just leave a fifty-seven Est Est rolling around on the floor.” He grins at her, his skin flushed, his clothes dishevelled, his hair looking exactly like he’s spent the last several hours dancing and singing and playing his heart out. “Couldn’t find any glasses, though, so I’m afraid we’re just going to have to share the bottle. Nothing we haven’t done before!”

Yennefer just stares at him, and for the first time in a very long while she really has no idea what to say.

Jaskier frowns at her, reaches out, touches her arm. “Yennefer?” he asks. “I was joking about the whole too-much-wine thing, but you look like you’re about to keel over. Are you alright?” Something flashes in his expression, fierce and dreadful, and he shifts closer, concerned. “Did someone give you something?” he asks, quieter, his hand hovering just above her skin. She can feel the heat of his palm, radiating through the air. “Food or drink that didn’t taste quite right? Wouldn’t be the first time some bastard duke has decided to take something he wanted the ungentlemanly way—”

“No,” Yennefer interrupts, and everything in her wants to reach up, to take his hand, to close the distance between them and feel the warmth of his skin. But she _can’t_.

“What’s going on?” Jaskier asks, clearly worried. He sets the uncorked bottle of Est Est down on the ground next to him, ready to catch her if he needs to, to support her any way he can – but he still doesn’t touch her, doesn’t cross her boundaries without her permission, and usually Yennefer would appreciate that but right now all she wants is to _touch_ him.

Fuck, she _wants_ him.

“Yennefer?”

Yennefer looks up, meets his gaze. “I heard your song,” she says flatly.

Jaskier blinks. “That’s kind of the point of a performance, Yennefer,” he says slowly. “Lots of people heard my singing – that’s what I was hired for.”

“No, I don’t mean I heard your damn performance, Jaskier,” Yennefer snaps. “I mean I heard your _song_.”

“Which song?” Jaskier asks, looking genuinely bemused. “I sang a lot of songs tonight – I mean, you can probably tell from how raspy my voice is.”

Yennefer feels a cold hand close around her heart because oh, _fuck_ , she _did_ read it wrong, he was just singing some showpiece, some learned joke, some Oxenfurt prank that she took _seriously_ – embarrassing, so fucking embarrassing. But not just embarrassing, because now there’s a fire burning in her heart, a yearning that she’s felt for so long now but never looked at, not really, never paid enough attention to, and he’s going to turn around and fucking _laugh_ at her.

She’s lost a lot in her life. She doesn’t want to lose him as well.

All of a sudden, Jaskier’s eyes go wide. “Oh,” he says, more than a little strangled. “ _That_ song.”

For a long second, they just sit there, staring at each other.

Yennefer isn’t sure what shatters the moment, but all of a sudden Jaskier is on his feet, scrambling away from her, his shoulders hunched and his hands held up in front of himself, _protecting_ himself, warding her off. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice rich with regret. “I’m so sorry, Yennefer, I never meant for you to know. I didn’t— I _shouldn’t_ —” He breaks off, scrubs a hand through his hair. “Shit,” he mutters. “I guess I’m just used to people not actually listening to what I’m saying in my songs – you can blame Geralt for that. I didn’t think you’d work it out.”

“It wasn’t exactly fucking _subtle_ , Jaskier,” Yennefer says.

Jaskier flinches. “Yeah, I guess not,” he sighs. “Shit. Look, it doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t, I mean, I’ve managed this far, haven’t I? Just… forget it ever happened. I’ll get over it.” His face scrunches up. “Well, I mean, I haven’t actually managed to get over it this far, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’ll work something out. And I guess I’ll retire that song from my repertoire, which is a shame because it’s actually quite a good one, you know?”

“Jaskier—”

“Or I can just leave,” Jaskier says, his voice flatter, his shoulders hunching even tighter. “It’s okay, I won’t be offended if you don’t want to see me again. We can figure out some kind of, I don’t know, _schedule_ when it comes to Geralt. Or he can just mediate between us, something like that.” He grimaces. “Gods, I should have just kept my fucking mouth _shut_.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Yennefer snaps, and gets to her feet.

Jaskier freezes, staring at her like a startled fawn.

Yennefer crosses the space between them in a handful of steps, the soft grass giving way beneath her dagger-sharp heels, the air still and warm and bright with the silver moonlight. She grips the front of Jaskier’s pale blue doublet with one hand, slides the other around the back of his neck, and kisses him, hard and fierce. He makes a muffled sound of surprise against her lips, still frozen, but then she winds her fingers into his hair and pulls – and he practically _melts_ , his hands cupping her face, calluses rough against her cheeks, and kisses her with a desperation that borders on ecstasy.

Yennefer’s heart is fluttering in her chest, light as a bird.

Jaskier makes another muted noise in the back of his throat and abruptly pulls back, stumbling away from her, his hands dropping from her face. “No,” he says, and Yennefer realises with a start that there are tears in his eyes. “No, Yennefer, I _can’t_.”

Bile floods the back of her throat. “What do you mean, you _can’t_?”

There’s a pain in Jaskier’s eyes that Yennefer has only seen a handful of times before, a rawness that he is so very talented at keeping hidden. “I spent years in Geralt’s bed and not in his heart,” Jaskier says, the words spilling out like water. “And yeah, the sex was great, really, really fantastic, top marks, can’t complain, and admittedly it all worked out rather well in the end – but I _can’t_ do that again.” He’s breathing heavily, almost panting. Yennefer can see that his hands are trembling. “Yennefer,” he says, his voice just as uneven, “trust me, I never thought I’d be saying this to you when we met all those years ago in Rinde, but I _love_ you. I can’t go to bed with you when I know you don’t feel the same.”

Yennefer’s heart is beating so hard that for a second she forgets to breathe. “Don’t presume to know how I feel, Jaskier,” she says, her voice hoarse and raspy, croaky like she hasn’t spoken in years. “Don’t _ever_ presume to know my heart.”

Something flickers in Jaskier’s eyes, something sharp and longing and, _oh_ , how did Yennefer not realise for so long? “Then tell me,” he says, his voice shaking. “Please, gods, Yennefer, tell me right now, because if you’re saying what I _think_ you’re saying, I may fucking die on the spot.”

The sheer joy in his face every time he sees her, and the answering swell in her heart. The overwhelming terror she felt when she heard he’d disappeared, and the staggering, heartstopping relief she felt when she found him. The way his touch burns across her skin. The hope that blazes in his eyes as he stands in front of her, skin gleaming in the moonlight, and the wonder that sparks in her heart at the sight, the wonder and the _desire._

She loves him. What the fuck, she _loves him._

“Oh gods, I _love_ you,” Yennefer says, because it seems like this is a revelation he should probably share in.

“You don’t have to sound so _annoyed_ about it!” Jaskier barks, but there’s a smile starting to twitch his lips, broad and beaming.

“I _am_ annoyed about it,” Yennefer says, closing the distance between them, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pulling him in for a kiss. “It’s _embarrassing_.”

“Embarrassing?” Jaskier asks, his hands sliding down her sides to her hips, pulling her flush against him with a force that makes something warm and wet kindle in her belly. He kisses her, intense and so fucking _erotic_. “I’ll have you know that I’m _famous_ for my abilities as a lover,” he whispers between her lips, his breath hot, his hands tight.

“Exactly,” Yennefer says, running her hands through his hair, digging her nails into his scalp and smirking at the shiver that sends through his body. “You’re famous for being a bard who can’t keep his overeager cock to himself. Hardly a lover befitting a sorceress of my station.”

Jaskier laughs, rolls his hips against hers, and with a shudder Yennefer realises that he’s hard as a rock from nothing more than a few kisses. “My cock’s only eager for _you_ right now,” he whispers in her ear.

“ _That_ ,” Yennefer says, aiming for scathing but not quite able to keep her voice steady, “is the worst attempt at flirting I’ve _ever_ heard.”

“Pretty sure we’re beyond flirting at this point,” Jaskier says, and with a burst of strength that Yennefer didn’t expect he picks her up, his hands under her thighs, guiding her legs around his waist. His cock is hard and insistent, nothing but a few layers of thin fabric separating them, and Jaskier groans softly as she grinds down against him as much as she can. “Yennefer,” he gasps, and all of a sudden there’s the rough bark of a tree against her back, catching in her hair, scratching against her bare shoulders. Jaskier’s fingertips are dug deep into her thighs, almost painful. “Gods, Yennefer, I really want to fuck you _right now_.”

A bolt of heat shocks straight to Yennefer’s core. “Yes,” she gasps, reaches between them to fumble their clothes out of the way, and she should probably be embarrassed at the neediness in her voice but then her fingers wrap around Jaskier’s cock and he moans against her throat, as musical as everything he does, and she realises she _doesn’t fucking care_. She strokes him a few times, hard and fast, glorying in his stuttering breaths, but then she hears him groan her name, thick with want, and a fresh burst of arousal shudders through her. She nearly rips a hole in her dress to pull it up around her waist, the flimsy fabric catching in her nails and snagging against the embroidery of his doublet – but then her fucking skirts are finally out of the way and he’s sinking into her, thick and searingly hot.

Her brain sort of stops working at that point.

“ _Yennefer_ ,” Jaskier groans against her throat, and thrusts up into her, long and slow.

“Jaskier,” Yennefer gasps, her hand knotting in his hair, her arm wrapped tight around his shoulders. “Come on, _move_.”

Jaskier laughs against her throat, kisses her skin with his lips and his tongue and his teeth. “Your wish, my command,” he rasps, and starts to fuck her in earnest. She’s not sure if it’s chance or if he really is as good a lover as he’d have her believe, but he’s hitting the perfect spot inside her with every thrust, sending sparks bursting behind her eyelids. She absently realises that she’s making little panting moans as he fucks into her, rhythmic and powerful, his hands digging so deep into her thighs that he must be leaving bruises, and she feels her orgasm starting its slow build, hot and twisting in the pit of her stomach.

Except then Jaskier slams into her one last time, barks out a long string of hoarse, breaking curses, and abruptly comes. His hips stutter a couple more times, nowhere _near_ enough to get her off properly, and then he’s trembling so much in the wake of his orgasm that she has to hurriedly unhook her legs from around his waist, get her feet back on the ground before she falls. His cock slips out of her with an obscene squelch and she feels the hot slide of his come down her thigh.

Jaskier leans his forehead against the tree at her back, eyes closed, panting. “ _Shit_.”

“Is that _it_?” Yennefer demands, halfway between amused and offended. “A dozen thrusts and you’re _done_? What happened to your famed abilities as a lover?”

“In my defence,” Jaskier says, still catching his breath, “I’ve been in love with you for a while now, and I didn’t exactly think I’d ever find myself in a situation where I got to fuck you against a tree.” He pauses, then nuzzles against her cheek, catches her lips in a surprisingly tender kiss. “Never thought I’d get to fuck you at all,” he admits, sinking to his knees with a wicked smile, pushing her dress back up around her waist and, oh, _fuck_ , licking the soft skin of her inner thigh clean of his own come. “Was pretty sure you only had eyes for Geralt,” he says, lifting her leg and hooking her thigh over his shoulder, “which, you know, I get.” He slides his fingers into her, two, then three, and leans forward, adds his tongue, quick and, ah, gods, so fucking _dextrous_. “But,” he murmurs, his fingers pumping faster, faster, crooking at just the right angle, _oh_ , “gods, I’ve wanted to do this for _so long_.”

Yennefer lets her head fall back against the treetrunk, her hands in his hair as he plays her like his fucking _lute_ , confident and talented and, ah, ah, fuck, she’s never going to admit it but he’s _right_ , he’s _good_ at this. She cries out into the moonlit night, her pleasure a counterpoint to the hums and groans and slick, dripping sounds he’s making between her thighs, and that only makes him fuck her harder.

“ _Oh, fuck_ ,” Yennefer gasps, then feels her legs start to genuinely tremble, her knees about to give way. “Shit, Jaskier, _stop_ ,” she husks, then pushes him away, sends him sprawling out on his back across the grass.

Jaskier’s lips and chin are wet and glistening with her arousal and his come. He looks up at her, his expression shocked, confused. “Gods, I’m sorry, what did I—”

Yennefer settles astride his face, grips a handful of his hair and guides his mouth back to _exactly_ where she wants it. “If you kept doing that,” she says, then moans as he wraps his arms around her thighs, buries his tongue inside her, “I was going to fall and break my fucking ankle. Have you _seen_ these shoes?” He tries to pull back, presumably to come out with some pithy, sarcastic response, but she has precisely no interest in his wit right now so she just tugs sharply at his hair, keeps him where she wants him – which turns out to be an _excellent_ idea, because she hears his answering moan, feels him tremble under her. Heat thrills through her and she grinds down against him, breathing hard. “Get on with it, then, bard,” she whispers, as commanding as she can when her thighs are practically quivering with pleasure. “Make me come.”

And, somewhat unsurprisingly, he does.

Yennefer comes with a broken cry, head thrown back, black hair cascading down her back like the obsidian-black velvet of the night sky above them. Jaskier keeps going as she bucks on top of him, fingers squeezing the bare skin of her hips, kissing and licking and humming his satisfaction into the crook of her thighs, and it’s absolute ecstasy until she comes shuddering down from her high and all of a sudden it’s too much. She pushes him away with a quiet groan, slides onto the grass at his side, and lies back, breathing hard, staring up at the moonlit trees that arch overhead like a lovers’ bower.

Jaskier wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression smug. “Any comments?” he asks, merry and laughing. “Feedback? Pointers on areas to improve? Come on, witch, I’m sure you can give me a review.”

Yennefer looks at him flatly. “You talk too much,” she says. “I only have one use for your tongue, and it’s unrelated to your words.”

Jaskier’s eyes flash, and he crawls on top of her, presses one thigh between her legs and claims her lips in a kiss that’s blazingly hot and tastes of them both. “Good luck getting me to shut up,” he murmurs against her lips, kissing her again. “I have it on good authority that I’m _very_ noisy in bed.” His smile is wicked. “Although if you chose to shut me up like that again, I can’t say I’d complain. I am more than happy to be naught but a throne for you to mount at your leisure, a willing mouth for your unending, ecstatic pleasure.” He kisses her again, his hands on either side of her head, and she feels desire stirring in her gut once more. “I would happily die with my head between your legs,” Jaskier murmurs. “With my fingers in your wet purse and my tongue lapping at your nub of delight.”

Yennefer snorts, rolls them over and settles herself astride his hips. “Talk about my ‘ _nub of delight_ ’ again,” she says, grabbing his half-hard cock and squeezing a little too tight to be pleasurable, “and I’ll cut yours off.”

Jaskier yelps, but Yennefer notes with interest that the sound isn’t entirely pained. “Excuse me, I’d describe that as more than a _nub_ ,” he mutters, trying to bat her hands away.

Yennefer ignores his paltry efforts, runs her thumbnail up the underside of his cock, squeezes the head. “I don’t know,” she says, mock-thoughtful, as his eyes roll back in his head and he makes a muffled moaning noise. “I’m not sure that ‘nub’ _isn’t_ the best description. You’re thick, but not overly long. Rather nub-like, if you ask me.”

“Stop describing my cock!” Jaskier husks, wriggling away from her, his cheeks flushed and his hair wild. Yennefer lets him go, settling back onto the grass with her chin propped in her hands, and watches as he scrambles to his feet, fumbling his trousers closed. “And it is _not_ nub-like,” he insists, a little petulantly. “It’s been inside plenty of people who’ve been _very_ satisfied with its length.”

“I’ve yet to see proof of _that_ ,” Yennefer drawls.

“Fair point,” Jaskier allows, then pads to the fountain and collects the still-untouched bottle of Est Est. He comes back to her, sits down on the grass at her side, then takes a long drink before handing her the bottle. “Give me half an hour or so, and I’ll prove it to you _all night long_.”

“You sure you can manage all night long?” Yennefer asks, dripping with sarcasm, and drinks. “You struggled with thirty seconds before.”

Jaskier huffs out an offended breath, snatches the bottle back. “Not all of us have Geralt’s stamina,” he protests. “I am but a mere human bard, unmutated and very mortal. And okay, admittedly I got a little… over-excited before. But I was fucking the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met, after being pretty convinced only a few minutes beforehand that I’d horribly offended her and was probably never going to see her again.” His voice cracks a little. “It was a very fraught situation.”

Yennefer sits up, takes the bottle of wine from Jaskier’s hands and sets it to one side, and as she does so he watches her in silence, his face shadowed, his eyes bright and unreadable. She kisses him softly, gently, a world away from the raging passion of moments ago – and they’ve already fucked, already made each other come, already devoured each other with all the fury of the Chaos that burns up in Yennefer’s heart, but somehow this kiss feels more intimate than any of that.

Jaskier studies her for a moment, his hand cupping her neck, his thumb stroking her cheek. “Did you mean it?” he asks, soft and pausing.

Something flutters in Yennefer’s heart, constricting her chest. “I meant it,” she says, and the only thing that makes the flayed-open feeling in her heart bearable is the tiny, aching smile that curls his lips.

They kiss for a moment longer, careful and slow and calm, learning each other for the first time. Jaskier tastes like wine and sex, and it turns out that, when he’s not desperate to fuck her into a tree, his touch is smooth and tender and, fuck, _loving_. She shifts, settles herself into his lap, and his hands map across her hips, slide up her back, run into her hair and hold her close, so close – and she knows what he is, she has no illusions about that, he’s a bard, he’s not a fighter, not a warrior, but with a sudden flash of surprise Yennefer realises that, in his arms, she feels safe.

Jaskier rests his forehead against hers, his lips stained red with wine and kisses. “So,” he says, clearly trying to sound more lighthearted than he feels. “What now, my unfairly beautiful naiad?”

Yennefer knows what he’s asking. They might be alone in this little grove, nothing but them and the stars, but they’re not alone in _this_ , whatever it is that’s hanging between them like a golden thread. Yennefer’s pretty sure that Geralt’s not going to have a problem with his lovers loving each other—it would be a _little_ hypocritical if he did—but he’s a strange, emotionally repressed man who wouldn’t know a healthy approach to his emotions if it hit him in the face. They need to talk, not just to each other but to _him_ as well. They need to share their expectations and their wants, their hopes and their feelings. They need to be open and honest and _vulnerable_ with each other.

Which is the _last_ thing Yennefer wants to do right now.

She kisses Jaskier again, harder, deeper. “Now,” she says, raking her fingernails against his scalp, “we go back to my rooms and find out if you can last longer than thirty seconds.”

Jaskier laughs, wraps his arms around her waist and squeezes tight. “While I appreciate that you’re giving me a second chance to prove myself,” he says wryly, “we really _do_ need to talk about—”

Yennefer cuts him off with a kiss, hurried and rushed, teeth bumping together. “Tomorrow,” she says, barely more than a breath. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Jaskier studies her for a moment, frowning, but then she kisses him again and feels him relent. “Okay,” he says, running a hand through her hair. “But I will hold you to that, witch. Tomorrow, we have an adult conversation. Tonight, we fuck. A lot. Deal?”

“Are you really going to try to bargain with me, bard?” Yennefer asks, as softly dangerous as she can.

“No,” Jaskier says, and flashes her a smile. “I’m just going to trust you.” – and she can see in his eyes that he _does_ , that he’s seen the worst parts of her, her flaws, her spites, her bitterness, and he trusts her, nonetheless.

Heat curls in her belly, and she kisses him again.

It takes them a little while to make it back to Yennefer’s rooms in the castle, mainly because they keep having to stop every few minutes to kiss, to touch, to hold, and, on one memorable occasion, for Jaskier to lift her up onto the stone balustrade just outside the banqueting hall, to spread her legs and sink to his knees, to make her come with a ferocious, single-minded intensity that has her sinking white teeth marks into the back of her hand. He grins at her when he’s done, delicately lifting her skirts and settling them back into place before tugging her back down off the balustrade, and then settles her hand in the crook of his elbow and retrieves the wine with his free hand. “After all,” he says, casual and relaxed, like he didn’t just have his head buried between her legs, “I’ve got competition. I believe Geralt’s record is five?”

Yennefer feels a smirk twitching at her lips. “Seven, actually,” she says, and Jaskier makes an impressed noise. “That night in Oxenfurt last year, before I left for Novigrad. He laid me out on the bed that he’d shared with you the night before, and he didn’t stop until I could barely speak.”

Heat flares in Jaskier’s gaze. “I did tell you that the make-up sex was good,” he says. “Our witcher does his best to make up for his lack of eloquence with… _other_ uses of his tongue.”

Yennefer hums her agreement, and feels arousal twist deeper in her gut.

The only illumination in her rooms is the moonlight that falls through the open windows, dappling patterns across the silken sheets, the embroidered pillows, the marble floors. Yennefer snaps her fingers, conjures a network of warm, dancing flames that flicker across the ceiling, bathing the room in a soft, gentle light that, Yennefer realises with a start, is almost identical to the candlelight in that little inn room in Ard Carraigh.

Jaskier’s looking up at the lights, a wondering smile on his lips. “If I didn’t know better,” he says, voice soft, “I’d say this was practically romantic.”

“Would you like me to be romantic?” Yennefer asks, taking the bottle of wine out of his hand. There’s a couple of cups on the side, and she fills one, drinks. “Would you like me to bring you flowers, bard?” she asks, watching him keenly. “Perhaps I should shower you with gifts, would you like that? Expensive clothes, musical instruments, jewelled rings.” She sets her cup down, steps forward, pushes his undone doublet back off his shoulders, lets it drop to the ground. “Or do you want me to take you out to dinner?” she purrs, tugging his shirt free of his trousers, pulling it over his head. “To buy you rare vintages and—” She can’t quite stop herself from smiling. “—very, _very_ blue cheeses?” She runs her hands down his chest, scratching her fingernails across his nipples, making him hiss and jerk towards her.

“Pretty sure,” Jaskier says, more than a little hoarse, “that if they came from _you_ , the flowers would be poisonous, I’d cut myself on the jewellery, and the cheese would make me vomit.”

Yennefer grabs his cock through his trousers, delights in his strangled moan. “You should take your clothes off,” she says, as offhandedly as she can.

“I’m not the only one,” Jaskier says, and his hands are at her shoulders, pushing her dress down, his every touch sparking like lightning against her skin. Her dress is light and loose-fitting, puddling around her feet like water, and, well, it was _far_ too hot for smallclothes today. Jaskier makes a softly pained noise in the back of his throat, his hand skimming down the curve of her hip, and he says, “Fuck, Yennefer, I knew you were beautiful but this is just…” He trails off, licks his lips.

Something twists in Yennefer’s stomach, a little bitter, a little dark. “Only after me for my body, bard?” she asks, eyebrow arched – because isn’t that always the case?

Jaskier reaches out, his calloused fingertips ghosting across the soft swell of her breast, and it’s the _barest_ fucking touch, basically nothing, but it sends shudders trembling through Yennefer’s bones. “If I was only after your body, witch,” Jaskier says, rich with love, with history, “I’d have tried to fuck you the moment I woke up in that bed in Rinde.”

“You _did_ try to fuck me the moment you woke up in that bed in Rinde,” Yennefer points out.

“No, I asked you if we’d _already_ fucked,” Jaskier corrects. “And then you tried to castrate me, which actually didn’t really clear the matter up that much.” He flashes her a grin. “No, what I’m after right now is a very specific combination of beautiful, deadly, and perfectly willing to steal my boots the morning after.”

“That _is_ a very specific combination,” Yennefer says, feeling something warm and nameless curling up in her heart. Now’s not the time for sentiment, though, so she turns away from him, feels his gaze raking down her body as she pads to the bed and lays back against the pillows. The silken sheets are heavenly against her heated skin, almost as satisfying as the expression on his face, awe-struck, _worshipful_ – and she can’t resist the urge to spread her legs, to run her fingertips down her stomach, through the dark curls between her thighs, to sink her fingers into herself and arch back against the sheets, moaning softly.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ ,” Jaskier mutters, and starts frantically scrabbling to get his trousers and boots off.

Yennefer’s worked herself halfway to her third orgasm by the time he joins her on the bed, naked and stumbling and more than a little uncoordinated in his excitement. He crawls on top of her, kisses her brutally hard and wastes no time in reaching between her legs, twining his hand with hers and fucking their joined fingers deeper into her. Yennefer cries out, hoarse and breaking, and she comes _astonishingly_ fast, her whole body tensing, Jaskier above her and inside her and pressing her down into the silken sheets as she keens through her climax.

Jaskier laughs in her ear, hoarse and low. “Is that it?” he whispers, and sucks a hot kiss into her throat. “A dozen thrusts and you’re done?”

“Fuck off,” Yennefer gasps, still trembling, and shoves him off her just to underline her point.

Jaskier laughs again, lounging out across the sheets like some kind of jungle cat, cock hard and straining against his thigh. “Fair’s fair,” he says, running calloused fingertips down her calf. “It’s just nice to know that I’m not the only one who’s a little… _overeager_.”

Yennefer wants nothing more than to push him onto his back, settle herself astride his lap and ride him until he finally learns to keep his smart mouth _shut_. She doesn’t, though, and instead just studies him as she catches her breath, the dark hair across his chest, the flush in his cheeks and the long, lean muscle of his thighs. Her lips twitch as something occurs to her, and to hide her smile she gets to her feet, pads to the Est Est and pours herself another cup. It’s sweet and rich on her tongue, and she pauses for a moment, savouring.

From the bed Jaskier makes an offended noise. “Are you going to _share_ that?”

Yennefer doesn’t bother to answer. She takes the cup with her, then goes to the gilt-framed mirror, lets her fingers linger over the various jars and bottles laid out across the table, letting Jaskier see what she’s doing, making him wait, making him wonder. After a long moment, broken only by the soft whisper of their breathing, her fingertips close around the small crystal flask of oil that she uses to run through her hair.

Jaskier pushes himself up onto his elbows on the bed, and Yennefer’s not sure if it’s conscious but she notices that his thighs fall a little further apart. “Want to tell me what you’re planning to do with that, witch?” he asks, a choked note in his voice that sends fire racing through Yennefer’s bones.

She goes back to the bed, wastes no time in seating herself across his waist, pointedly ignoring the insistent press of his cock. The flask of oil sits neatly on the bed next to her knee, glimmering in the magical firelight, and she offers him the cup of wine. “I seem to remember you once telling me,” she says as Jaskier takes the cup, drains what’s left, “how much you enjoyed having Geralt’s cock in your arse.”

Jaskier empties the cup, sets it down on the sheets. “Hate to break it to you, Yennefer,” he says, not quite able to keep a tremble of anticipation out of his voice, “but if we’re talking about cocks in arses, you’re missing an essential piece of equipment.”

Yennefer presses her fingertips to his chest almost casually, pushes him back down to the mattress. “Let me worry about that,” she says, chasing him down, catching his wine-stained lips in a kiss.

“I’m in bed with you, an empty glass of wine, and some oil,” Jaskier says, but doesn’t stop her from kissing her way down his neck, his chest. He moans softly as she pinches his nipple, pushes his head back into the pillows. “I can’t decide whether I’m really turned on or fucking terrified.”

“You seem to be enjoying yourself just fine,” Yennefer murmurs into his stomach, fingernails digging into his hips.

“Don’t take the erection as proof of that,” Jaskier says, at which Yennefer raises an eyebrow, wraps her hand around his cock, and smirks at the resulting groan. “ _That_ is unfair,” Jaskier objects. “I’d like to inform you that I’ve ended up hard in a lot of very inappropriate situations over the years. While I’m performing is always a little unfortunate, but I can usually use my lute to, you know, regain a little dignity.” Yennefer slides down the bed, knocking his legs further apart, stroking his cock with slow, lazy movements. “I got _worryingly_ turned on the first time I saw Geralt kill a kikimora,” Jaskier says, staring up at the ceiling, sounding more and more wrecked with every passing second. “And, of course, he can _smell_ it, which isn’t embarrassing at all. So what I’m saying, Yennefer, is that you really can’t take my physical state as evidence of my enjoyment, given that I’m apparently pretty unpredictable in that— Ah, gods, _Yennefer!_ ”

Yennefer presses another open-mouthed kiss to the head of his cock, then lets go. “Yes?” she asks, the picture of innocence, and reaches for the flask of oil.

“Oh, fuck you,” Jaskier gasps, propping himself up so he can see her. “Do you want me to beg? Because I’m not a proud man, I’ll fucking beg.”

“Beg for what?” Yennefer asks, carefully removing the stopper from the flask and pouring oil over her fingers. She doesn’t meet his gaze, just rubs her fingertips together, luxuriating in the slow, smooth glide.

“Fucking _touch me_ ,” Jaskier snaps. “Suck my cock, get your fingers in my arse, whatever it is you’re planning – just fucking _do it_.”

Yennefer shrugs, and puts the stoppered flask to one side. “If you insist,” she says, deliberately disinterested, and pushes two slick fingers into him without hesitation. The sound that comes out of his mouth is pure filth, half moan, half yelp, and Yennefer laughs, watches as his eyes roll back in his head, then starts to work her fingers in and out. “Tell me, bard,” she says, propping her chin on her free hand. “How do I compare?”

“To Ger- _alt_?” The end of Jaskier’s question gets a little high-pitched as Yennefer adds a third finger, the stretch fierce and aching. Jaskier pants for a second, hands scrabbling against the sheets. “I mean,” he says after a moment, breathy, strangled, “it’s not exactly _bad_ , but I definitely think that you could work on your technique, you know, maybe get him to show you—”

“How’s this?” Yennefer interrupts, and crooks her fingers just so.

Jaskier _shouts_ , raw and deep and uncontrollably loud. “Oh, _fuck_ ,” he gasps, his hips twitching up off the bed. “Okay, okay, you’re amazing, you’re the best I’ve ever had, whatever you want me to say, just _do not stop doing that_.”

“Doing what?” Yennefer asks, tilting her head, and does it again.

“Fuck you,” Jaskier pants.

“I’m doing my best,” Yennefer drawls.

“Do _better_ ,” Jaskier snaps. “Are you going to touch my cock or am I going to have to do it myself?”

“Be my guest.”

“You’re such a fucking—”

Yennefer cuts off whatever else she is with a particularly brutal twist of her fingers, but Jaskier doesn’t seem too perturbed. He wraps his hand around his cock, strokes himself in time with the rhythm of her fingers, his moans and whimpers and sighs filling the air, and Yennefer sinks down further, presses a kiss to the twitching muscles of his thigh, then very slowly, very deliberately scrapes her teeth across his skin.

Jaskier shoves up on one elbow, his hand stilling around his cock. There’s an expression of shocked realisation plastered across his face, and he blurts, “Yennefer, are you—”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish that thought.

Yennefer thrusts her fingers in _deep_ , pressing firm and relentless against the spot inside him that pulls all those wicked noises from his throat, and at the same time she bites down on the soft flesh of his inner thigh, barely a handspan away from his balls – and bites down _hard_. Jaskier chokes, spasms, and comes with a shout, spilling across his frozen fist, his stomach, his chest, then collapses down into the pillows with a drawn-out groan. Yennefer kisses the spot she’s bitten, smiling against his skin as he whines low in his throat, and carefully slides her fingers out of him.

Jaskier makes a muted, dazed sound, staring up at the ceiling. “That,” he says faintly, “is Geralt’s favourite party trick.”

“I know,” Yennefer says with a smirk, wiping oil off her fingers and onto his thigh. “He told me.”

Jaskier groans, running the hand that isn’t covered in his own come through his hair. “I’m not going to lie,” he says, his voice shaky. “The idea of you and Geralt talking about me when you’re in bed together is _very_ stimulating.”

Yennefer traces her fingertips through the soft hair scattered across his pale thighs. “I was a little surprised,” she says, pressing her nail into the bitemark she left on his skin. “Didn’t pick you for someone who’d enjoy pain quite _that_ much.”

“I enjoy a lot of things,” Jaskier says absently, still staring at the ceiling, then looks down at her, spreads his thighs a little wider and taps his fingers against a patch of skin that’s significantly higher than the mark Yennefer made. “You see this?”

It’s half-hidden by the curls of his hair, but with a jolt of surprise Yennefer realises that there’s a circle of small white scars marring his skin, the exact right size for teeth. She touches it carefully, and for a second concern flashes through her heart. “ _Geralt_ did this?” she asks, incredulous.

Jaskier lets his head fall back against the pillows. “Not on purpose,” he answers, his voice still somewhere between blissful and dozy. “We fucked after one of his hunts, when he was still black-eyed and veiny and covered in monster blood – which _really_ shouldn’t be as attractive as it is, you know? That man has a _desperately_ unfair advantage in the looks department.” He sighs, and Yennefer thoughtfully runs her thumb around the ring of scars. “You know how he’s always so careful with his strength?” Jaskier says. “Always holding himself back, never really letting go? Yeah, turns out that when he’s still high on his witcher potions, he loses a lot of that restraint – and when his teeth are that sharp…” He trails off, shrugs. “He obviously felt _horrible_ about it afterwards, but to be honest, I am _perfectly_ okay with being thrown to the ground and fucked into next week.”

“And being bitten so hard it _scars_?” Yennefer asks, her lips twisting in a moue of distaste.

Jaskier shrugs. “It’s not the first scar I have because of Geralt, and it probably won’t be the last,” he says, and presses his fingers into another scar on his thigh. “This was a werewolf’s claw,” he says, then reaches up, brushes his fingertips across his neck, so very close to his carotid artery. “And this was a bruxa’s teeth.” Yennefer must make some faint sound at that because Jaskier levers himself up onto his elbows and peers down at her. He grins. “Why, my lady Yennefer, are you _worried_ about me?”

Yennefer digs her thumb into the centre of the scar in his thigh, isn’t quite as satisfied by his offended yelp as she wants to be. “This is a bad place for a bite to break the skin,” she says. “There’s a lot of blood that flows through this area of the body. If he’d gone too deep, you could have been _seriously_ hurt.”

Jaskier’s lips are curled in an achingly fond smile. “You _are_ worried about me!” he exclaims. “What, don’t like the idea of your fragile little human getting hurt?”

Yennefer’s mouth goes a little dry. “Are you saying that you’re mine, Jaskier?”

Jaskier’s expression stills. “If you want me, I am,” he says, almost reverent.

Yennefer leans forward, presses a gentle kiss to the ring of scars under her fingers. “I want you,” she says, murmuring it into the soft curls of his hair, the warmth of his skin. “I want you _both_.”

Jaskier sits up, pulls her into his arms, kisses her with warmth and love and _relief_. “If it’s up to me,” he says, quiet and affectionate, kisses her again, “you’ll have us both.”

Yennefer kisses him for a moment longer, her heart so fucking _full_ in her chest, and she shifts closer, her fingers in his hair, his body warm and solid against hers, his hands settling on her hips and—

His _sticky_ hands.

Yennefer pulls back, looks down at herself. “I am _covered_ ,” she says, icily cold, “in your come.”

Jaskier doesn’t even have the good grace to look sheepish. “So am I,” he points out brightly. “And whose fault is that?”

“You weren’t exactly complaining at the time,” Yennefer says.

“True,” Jaskier muses. “And you were performing me a _wonderful_ service as well, so I suppose I really shouldn’t be so unhelpful.” His arms tighten around her and all of a sudden he flips them over, presses her into the mattress, and grins down at her. “Maybe I should offer to clean you up?” he asks, eyebrow cocked, and leans down, runs his tongue along the mess of his come that’s smeared across her breasts. It’s filthy and obscene and _definitely_ isn’t the most efficient way to get either of them clean, but the sight of him _worshipping_ her like that, the feel of his tongue and his hands, the scrape of his stubble – it’s enough to have heat building in her belly once more.

Yennefer grips his hair, twists him up to face her. “Might I remind you,” she says, as haughty as she can manage, “that you’re currently falling _far_ short if you’re intending to match Geralt’s… achievements. Three to his seven.”

Jaskier smirks. “If you want me to eat you out, my naiad, you only have to ask.”

“I’m not asking,” Yennefer drawls. “I’m _ordering_.”

Jaskier’s cheeks flush, and she feels him shiver against her. “Alright then,” he says, voice thick with unabashed lust. “Four more orgasms, coming up.”

Yennefer arches an eyebrow. “That’s a bold claim,” she says, dry as the desert, but Jaskier’s already burying his head between her legs, eyes closed, fingers and tongue and, _oh_ , Yennefer can’t help but moan. She hears Jaskier’s soft laugh, but she’s still got a hand in his hair and she shoves him back down before he can distract himself with some witticism or sarcastic comment. After all, he has work to do.

Yennefer comes twice more from his mouth and fingers, and by the time she’s shivering against the silken sheets the second time, he’s hard again. She repays the favour, sucks him off until he comes a _third_ time—honestly impressive for a human male his age—and if she thought that he was noisy before, well, she had no idea. He _babbles_ , talking nonsense about her mouth, her tongue, about other blowjobs he’s received in the past, about other blowjobs he’s _given_ in the past, and it’s when he somehow gets on to archaic Kerackian erotic poetry that she decides that this is _really_ unacceptable and makes it her mission to get him so worked up, so turned on, so flat-out _ruined_ that he finally shuts the fuck up. She brings him to the peak of orgasm three times only to bring him back again, leaving him writhing and whimpering against the sheets – but he _never stops talking_.

“Fuck, Yennefer, if you keep doing this I swear to all the _gods_ that you are going to kill me. And I don’t mean that in a metaphorical way, I’m really not, you are _actually_ going to fuck me to death, and you know what? I will die _happy_ , ah, yeah, right there, oh _fuck_ , did they teach you _this_ at Aretuza as well? Or did you just learn this through your long life fucking your way across the Continent? Ow, okay, no need to use your teeth _that_ much! I’m very sorry, you’re just a naturally talented cocksucker, no practice required.”

He does shut up when he comes, thankfully, arching off the bed, mouth gaping open in a slick, red o – but the moment he can breathe again, slumped back against the pillows with his eyes closed and his body lax, he’s off again. No talking this time, as a matter of fact, no, this time he’s _humming_ , mumbling something that she’s pretty sure is _song lyrics_ under his breath.

Yennefer finally moves the empty wine cup and the crystal flask to the floor, then settles onto the bed next to him. “Jaskier,” she says flatly. “Shut up.”

Jaskier cracks an eye, peers at her. It’s an expression that’s startlingly familiar, a sleepy, dozy look that she’s seen in a dozen rented rooms after a dozen drunken nights – and it sends warmth and affection flooding through her heart. “Let me guess,” he says, a sleepy note seeping into his voice. “ _Both_ my lovers don’t appreciate the erotic ballads I write about them.” He scoffs, then pulls her closer, wraps his arm around her shoulders and presses a kiss to her temple. “You know, a lot of people actually pay me money to compose about them? You two get it for free, and all you do is _complain_.”

“Jaskier?”

“Yennefer?”

“Go to sleep,” Yennefer says. “And _shut up_.”

Jaskier laughs, his eyes closed, his fingertips playing delicately across her skin. “I love you, witch,” he says, simple, straightforward, like it’s the easiest thing in the world to love like that, open, unapologetic, happy and free. “And don’t worry,” he says, getting sleepier with every word. “I don’t need you to say it back, not all the time. I know that would probably make something break in your deep, dark, dramatic sorceress brain. I just need you to listen when I say it to you.” He sighs, shifts a little, and Yennefer listens to his breathing even out as he slips off into sleep, well-fucked and utterly exhausted.

She stays awake a little longer, tracing patterns across his chest, his skin tacky with sweat and other bodily fluids that she’s trying not to identify. She doesn’t think much, doesn’t look at the knot of emotion that’s tight and blazing in her chest, doesn’t try to work out what happens next, where they go from here, no, instead she just lies there, Jaskier’s arm loose around her shoulders, his body warm and solid next to her, and slowly falls asleep.

They wake a little after dawn, the sound of birdsong filtering in through the open windows, and the magical lights that Yennefer set dancing across the ceiling have long since been banished by the soft, hazy light of a summer morning in Toussaint. Jaskier kisses her, languid and a little sour, the calluses on his hands catching against her skin, and she shifts closer, strokes his cock to full hardness, then hooks her leg over his hip.

They both groan as he sinks into her, slow and unhurried, and they rock together, small movements, lazy and gentle. Jaskier murmurs sleepily in Yennefer’s ear as they fuck—“You feel _incredible_ , Yennefer, gods, so hot and wet and tight, _fuck_ , I could wake up like this every morning.”—but Yennefer doesn’t have it in her to be annoyed, not right now, not when his arms are around her and his voice is soft and hoarse against her throat, the sheets silky smooth beneath them and the air already heavy and hot with the weight of summer.

Just for a second, as Jaskier kisses beads of sweat off her arched neck, the rhythm of his hips steady and even, as her orgasm builds slowly and unrelentingly in her belly, Yennefer lets out a shuddering breath and closes her eyes. She buries her face in his hair, loses herself in the sensation, in the feeling, in the simplicity of this moment – and maybe it’s because she’s still half-awake, maybe it’s because she’s barely slept, maybe it’s because of the constant litany of praise and love that’s pouring over her, but just for a second, she lets go. “Jaskier,” she whispers, noses through his curling hair, presses a soft kiss to the shell of his ear. “This is perfect. Gods, _you’re_ perfect.”

Jaskier’s breath shudders against her throat, his fingers spasm tighter around her hip. He rolls her onto her back, doesn’t meet her gaze, doesn’t crack a joke, doesn’t make a single sound, just buries his face in her hair and fucks her, just as slow, just as gentle, just as loving. Yennefer moans, wraps her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist, holds him close and meets his thrusts – and she’d never admit it to anyone, not even to _him_ , but when she comes, there are tears in her eyes.

Jaskier’s hips stutter, one, twice, before he stills, but all the noise he makes is a single sigh, long and low. He doesn’t move for a long moment, just stays there, forehead pressed to the pillows, his arms braced either side of Yennefer’s ribs. His breathing is uneven, a little ragged, more so than it should be.

Yennefer frowns, runs her hand through his hair. “Jaskier?” she asks. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Jaskier says, and doesn’t move.

“Are you going to move?”

Jaskier’s quiet for a moment longer, then mutters, “Give me a minute.”

Yennefer blinks, stares up at the ceiling, not quite sure what to do. It’s well within her power to just push him off her, to get out of bed and leave him to whatever odd mood seems to have struck him, but for some reason she finds that she doesn’t want to. She’s wrapped up in him, his weight heavy above her, his cock softening inside her, his breath warm and damp against her skin – and there it is again, that strange little feeling in her chest. Safety, comfort, security. Not from monsters or mages or mercenaries, no, he’d have a hard time protecting her from any of those, but Jaskier is a different kind of safety. He would never hurt her, never break her heart. He would never reject her, never turn her aside in favour of another.

Yennefer lets out a soft breath, strokes her hand through his hair again. “I think this is the quietest you’ve ever been,” she says, and kisses his temple.

“Sorry,” Jaskier says, muffled by the pillow, then shifts, pushes himself up so they’re nose to nose. His eyes are glimmeringly bright, and he kisses her softly, tenderly. “Just got a bit overwhelmed. It happens, sometimes.”

Yennefer raises an eyebrow, doesn’t let him move away. “ _That_ was what overwhelmed you?” she teases. “After everything we did last night, _that’s_ what pushes you over the edge?”

Jaskier doesn’t laugh. “It was what you said,” he says quietly. “It’s not the kind of thing I get told often, so it… means a lot.” He pauses, smiles a crooked little smile. “It means even more coming from you.”

There’s a strange kind of panic rising in Yennefer’s throat, raw and exposed and aching. It’s almost overwhelming, in fact, too much, too intimate, too _naked_ – but she looks up at him, framed against the sunlight, eyes blue and, she abruptly realises, shining with unshed tears, and somehow it settles her heart. She brushes her fingertips down his cheek, tilts his chin up, kisses him softly. “I meant it,” she says, the words like thorns on her tongue. “You are… special. To me.” She cocks an eyebrow, smirks a little. “And the only reason anyone would think you were less than perfect, bard, is if they haven’t had you between their thighs.”

Jaskier’s lips twitch, just a little. “You’d be surprised,” he says, a little cryptic, then tilts his head, swoops down to kiss her. “So is this you trying to encourage me to go and fuck other people?” he asks, amusement rich in his voice. “Because that seems like a slightly odd thing to do right now.”

Yennefer wraps her legs around his waist, squeezes tight. “The only other person you’re allowed to fuck,” she says, crossing her ankles, locking him in place, “is Geralt. And even then, I want you to be thinking about me.”

Jaskier groans, kisses her. “You are _insatiable_ ,” he whispers against her lips, grinning, then wiggles his hips, fights his way free from her grasp, and collapses onto the bed next to her. He kisses her shoulder, throws his arm across her stomach. “We do need to talk, you know.” He laughs. “And you _did_ promise me that we’d have an adult conversation this morning. This isn’t the most straightforward situation, you know.”

“No,” Yennefer says, playing absently with his hair, sweaty and in desperate need of washing. “I think it’s actually very simple.”

Jaskier cocks an eyebrow. “Enlighten me.”

“You love me,” Yennefer says, her throat tight, “and for some _godsforsaken_ reason, I love you.” She sees Jaskier’s smile, small and warm and so fucking happy. “We both love Geralt,” she pushes on, “not that the fool deserves it most of the time, and he loves us both in return.”

Darkness flickers in Jaskier’s eyes. “And if he doesn’t love us enough to share us?” he asks, softer. “Not everyone can do that. And you know how protective he can be, how _possessive_.”

“Then he’s a hypocrite of the _highest_ order,” Yennefer says, her voice sharp. “And I will be _most_ disappointed with him.”

Jaskier laughs, leans forward to kiss her again. “Why do I get the feeling,” he murmurs against her shoulder, “that your version of ‘disappointed’ involves a lot more disemboweling than mine?”

“I wouldn’t _disembowel_ him,” Yennefer says primly. “Ciri would be rather unhappy with me if I disembowelled him, after all. I’d just make his life… _very_ difficult for a while. And then I’d come to you, and I’d strip you naked, and I’d fuck you until you couldn’t remember anything but my name.” She pauses, smirks. “And I’d shower you with all the lavender mead you could possibly want.”

“Promises, promises,” Jaskier murmurs, but he’s smiling again – and with a jolt Yennefer realises that, right now, that’s all that matters.

She reaches out, brushes her thumb against his lower lip, red and full and wet. “You do realise, my naiad,” she says, little more than a breath, “that, as things stand, you’re still one behind our witcher?”

“Is that so?” Jaskier asks, aping disinterest, but his hand is dancing down her stomach, dipping lower, his touch like lightning against her skin, even now. “Well,” he says, slipping his fingers between her legs, nudging her thighs wider, “I’ll have to do something about that, won’t I?”

“I think you will,” Yennefer says, and when he kisses her, leisurely and luxurious in the summertime heat, she feels such a flash of pure, unrivalled joy that she can barely stand it. She pushes her head back into the pillows, sighs at the slow rhythm of Jaskier’s fingers, the smell of his sweat, the weight of his body, and here, in this moment, surrounded by the silk of the sheets and the certainty of her ridiculous, over-the-top, extravagant bard’s love, Yennefer is inescapably happy.


	5. Chapter 5

**[PODFIC MOBILE STREAMING LINK | 01:18:26](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_%20pt5.mp3)**

[full podfic downloads available in chapter 7]

* * *

_five._

Yennefer studies the fur-lined cloak, twitches the collar and runs her thumb over the stitching of the hem. “Is this the best you have?” she asks the tailor, eyebrow raised. “Because no matter what you try to tell me, this fur is _not_ mink, and I am fairly sure that this hem will come undone within seconds of me handing over my money.” She works a nail underneath a particularly loose stitch, tugs it out with the barest amount of pressure, and looks up at him expectantly.

The tailor’s expression tightens. “Madam,” he says, expansive and saccharine, “I can assure you—”

“I’m going to assume,” Yennefer interrupts, tossing the cloak back on the table between them, “that you saw me walk into your little shop, took me for some rich, arrogant fool who doesn’t understand the difference between _fashion_ and _quality_ , and decided to whip out the cheap cuts that you’ve been trying to flog since, by the looks of them, last spring?”

There’s an awkwardness in the tailor’s eyes that tells her she’s right. “Please accept my humblest apologies,” he says, bowing and scraping. “This must have been left out in the shop by my apprentice – as you say, my lady, it’s not fit for sale. I _do_ apologise.” With a quick movement, he sweeps the substandard cloak away underneath the table, hiding it, Yennefer reflects, from the view of any angry witches who might be about to seriously affect his ability to have children. “If you’d come with me, I can show you some of our other wares that might be more suitable?”

“And by ‘suitable’,” Yennefer drawls, “I assume you mean ‘functional’?”

The tailor flushes. “I assure you that they will be more than appropriate for your needs,” he says, and ushers her through into the shop’s second room.

The clothes in here are _much_ more like it, and Yennefer rapidly builds up a pile of things she wants to buy. A black cloak embroidered with silver thread, lined with astonishingly soft—and, more importantly, _genuine_ —mink fur that slips through her fingers like water. An ankle-length coat of fine wool, white fabric with black pearl embellishments carefully sewn along the high collar. Cashmere undergarments, thick enough to keep her warm through even the coldest winter nights. Two dresses, both black, with long sleeves, long skirts, and just enough detailing across the bodices to make them interesting instead of plain. She runs her fingertips across a beautifully-stitched flower, done in golden metallic thread, and says, “This is very nice.”

The tailor stands a little straighter. “I embroidered it myself,” he says, pride obvious in his voice. “The thread is very valuable and very difficult to obtain, so I prefer to take the pressure off my seamstresses and only use it myself.”

Yennefer hums. “You have talent,” she says, and adds the dress to the pile. “I’ll take the lot. And could you recommend a local shoemaker? I need some good winter boots.”

When Yennefer returns to her lodgings in Novigrad, a little after dusk, there are packages waiting for her from the tailor, the shoemaker, the furrier, and her favourite wine merchant. She takes her supper in the library, a book open on the table next to her, and then goes to pack, glass of warm mulled wine in one hand as she does so. She hums softly to herself, folding clothes for two weeks into a sizeable travelling bag that will magically fold down to no more than the size of a satchel, then pauses, realises that the song she’s humming is one of Jaskier’s. In fact, it’s the song he sang in Toussaint last year, the song that struck to the depths of her heart and made her see what she’d been missing for so long. It sits at the back of her mind even now, a constant accompaniment to her every waking moment.

Yennefer’s smile turns a little sad, and she tucks another pair of fur-lined boots into her bag.

She’s packing for Kaer Morhen, of course. She’s expected there tomorrow, to stay for a fortnight or so so that she can work with Ciri on some of the finer points of fire magic that she hasn’t yet quite managed to perfect, and if she’s honest with herself, she’s been looking forward to this for months. It’s been a long year, full of war, full of difficult decisions and internal strife, and all she wants to do is sink into the hot springs at the keep, a glass of her favourite red in one hand and the arms of her lovers around her. Geralt will be there, of course, ruggedly handsome, smiling at her with that deep wellspring of quiet, solid love that makes her heart swell, but Jaskier couldn’t make it this year, something to do with an important conference at Oxenfurt that he can’t justifiably miss to, as he put it the last time she saw him, fuck around in the mountains with a bunch of witchers.

“And one witch, of course,” he’d said as they lay tangled together in his bed in Oxenfurt, sweaty and post-coital. “And this isn’t to say that I don’t want to come and lavish my attention on your nub of delight every day, because you know I do – but I really have to stay here.” He smiled, a little lopsided. “Geralt will keep you warm, I’m sure,” he purred, running his fingers down the curve of her ribs. “I gave him some tips the last time I saw him. Maybe he’ll manage to beat my record one day.”

In her lodgings in Novigrad, Yennefer smiles at the memory. She tucks three winebottles into her bag, settling them carefully in the folds of a thick-furred bearskin, and puts aside the soft pulse of sadness in her heart. She’ll see Jaskier in the spring, she knows, because she has business with his old spymaster that will take her to Oxenfurt. That will have to be enough. Besides, Geralt will be at Kaer Morhen, and Geralt is more than enough to keep her satisfied.

She thinks of the gleam of his golden-yellow eyes in flickering candlelight, and feels heat stirring in her belly.

Yennefer finishes packing, then sets the now satchel-sized bag to one side and reaches for her mulled wine once more. She settles in the library, the same book from dinner open on her knee, and lights the already-laid fire with a flick of her fingers. She tries to read for a while but her eyes just flicker across the words without really taking them in – not helped, of course, by the fact that the book is some dry treatise on the advanced uses of Chaotic fire that Tissaia recommended. Tissaia is a brilliant woman in many ways, one of the sharpest minds Yennefer thinks she’s ever known and her recommendations on academic subjects are always spot on, but her taste in prose can be… dull, to say the least.

Sabrina warned her as much when she passed the book to her over tea and delicately-flavoured cakes one afternoon in Ard Carraigh a few weeks ago. “It’s not the _most_ interesting, that one,” she’d said, a sneer twisting her elegant lips. “There’s a much more lively dissertation on the topic written by an old Aedirnian sorceress – it’s in the library at Ban Ard, I think. You should dig that up once you’ve slogged through Tissaia’s garbage. The name’s Magda, maybe, or Magdalena, something like that. A fellow Vengerbergian, I think.” Her sneer flickered a little more wicked. “But, of course, you can’t really believe anything that a _Vengerbergian_ sorceress would write, can you?”

Yennefer just raised an eyebrow and finished off her tea. “Not your best effort, Sabrina.”

Sabrina had sighed a little, then pulled a pile of correspondence out of her pearl-encrusted bag. “I was up late last night,” she said, rifling through until she found a torn-open letter, which she’d handed to Yennefer. “A message from Triss that you need to see – it’s about that bloody business with Dijkstra.” Sabrina laughed as Yennefer unfurled the letter. “If only your pet bard was still in his employ, Yenna. You could just get him and your witcher to do our dirty work for us – that would solve _all kinds_ of problems.”

In her library in Novigrad, Yennefer ignores the curl of warmth in her stomach at _your bard_ paired so neatly with _your witcher_.

Somehow, despite their interwoven lives and interweaving destinies, Yennefer hasn’t been in the same place as both Geralt and Jaskier at the same time since she spent that hot, hazy summer evening in Toussaint with Jaskier. She’s drunk with Jaskier in Oxenfurt and travelled with Geralt through the ruins of Cintra, watched Geralt slaughter monsters and seen Jaskier bewitch a dozen noble audiences with the particular magic of his lute, and she knows that they’ve been together, that Jaskier was at Kaer Morhen last winter, that Geralt was in Oxenfurt only a week before her. Somehow, though, their paths have never come together. To anyone else, it would probably be an odd arrangement, tangled with jealousy and resentment – and Yennefer thinks that, if it were any other two people in this world, it would be. But Geralt is Geralt, and Jaskier is Jaskier. They balance each other out. They _all_ do.

Yennefer watches the lazy gutter of the flames, crackling bright and hot around the sweet-smelling logs in the hearth, and after a little while, she goes back to her book.

Novigrad is frosty the next morning, white tendrils tracing across the chill glass of her bedroom window, a bite in the air that nips at the back of her throat, but Yennefer is _well_ aware that this is a spring breeze compared to what awaits her in the mountains. She wraps herself in soft undergarments, in a thick dress, in a fur-collared coat and the fur-lined cloak she bought from the tailor yesterday, then gloves, a fur stole, and winter boots. She wonders about a hat, but decides against it. She’s never really suited hats, and it _has_ been a few months since she last saw Geralt. Not that she needs to, of course, because he would be eating out of her hand if she was dressed in rags and swamp mud – but she wants to impress, to see his pupils dilate when he catches sight of her, to see his nostrils flare as he breathes in her perfume.

A shiver runs through her, rich with anticipation.

Bespelled satchel on her shoulder, she opens a portal to Kaer Morhen.

Yennefer expects biting winds, when she steps through. She expects it to be so ferociously cold that she can’t breathe, expects howling gales and blasting snowstorms, expects to have to stumble blindly to the nearest shelter before she can so much as form a conscious though. Instead she goes through the portal, head bowed in preparation, and steps into a small courtyard just behind the main gate of the keep that’s drenched in a bone-deep, aching silence.

The portal snaps shut behind her without a sound, and Yennefer looks up not at the blasting gale, not at menacing grey walls hidden behind a thunderous wave of snow, but at fresh snow, light and delicate, snowflakes gliding on silent eddies and catching gently in the dark web of her hair. The thin layer of fresh snow across the flagstones is undisturbed by footprints, perfect, untouched, and the courtyard is full of that peculiar silence that only comes with snowfall. The world is muffled, muted. All she can hear is the creaking of the leather strap across her shoulder, the soft rush of her breath, the tread of her boots against the stone underfoot.

Yennefer closes her eyes, turns her face to the sky, and listens to the quiet of the snow. Peace seeps slowly into her heart, her mind, her soul, soothing the fears that plague her across the Continent, the struggles, the difficulties. Here, she can rest.

“ _Yen_.”

Geralt’s voice is as rich and full of happiness as it ever could be.

Yennefer looks down to see him striding towards her, unarmoured, absent his swords, his hair loose around his shoulders. Despite the cold he’s in his shirtsleeves, forearms bare, medallion glinting around his neck, and she barely has time to smile before she’s in his arms, his hands warm against her cheeks, his lips chapped and rough against hers. She sinks into the kiss, feels something that was tight and tense loosen in her chest, and wraps her arms around his shoulders, laughs as he bodily lifts her off her feet. “Put me down!” she orders, smacking her hand against his shoulder. “I’m not a _toy_ for you to throw around, Geralt.”

Geralt rumbles a hum against her neck. “I missed you,” he murmurs.

“That doesn’t change the fact that I won’t be treated like this,” Yennefer says, bright and amused and _happy_. “Set me down, Geralt, before I _make_ you set me down.”

Geralt keeps her lifted for a moment longer, kisses her thoroughly one more time, and then sets her down on her feet with surprising care. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, brushing snow off the shoulders of her cloak. “I’ve been outnumbered these past few weeks, and I was beginning to think that it would be spring again before I managed to win an argument.”

“That assumes that I’d take your side in whatever arguments you’re having,” Yennefer says, running her fingertips down his forearms, across the backs of his hands. “Which is, frankly, an unlikely proposition.” She pauses, frowns up at him. “Outnumbered by _whom_ , exactly?”

Geralt’s expression is somewhere between wryly amused and ecstatically content. “Eskel brought an unexpected guest to the keep this winter,” he says, and Yennefer can practically taste the eye-roll. “Might ruin your plans for a relaxing few weeks I’m afraid, Yen.”

“What unexpected guest?” Yennefer asks. “Another witcher? Or one of the Lodge?”

Geralt smiles. “Not exactly.”

“ _Yennefer!_ ”

Yennefer jerks away from Geralt, startled. “Jaskier?” she asks, incredulous – and, oh, he’s _right there_ , wrapped in a bright blue cloak and ludicrously shiny boots, cheeks red and hair awry. His song flares up in her heart, loud enough to drown out the silence of the snow, and she didn’t think she’d see him for months, didn’t think she’d see him until the new year at least, but here he is, grinning at her in a perfect echo of her own joy. “ _Jaskier_ ,” she says again, warmer, and goes to him, winds her hands into the front of his cloak and pulls him to her, kisses him with fierce love and sharp, spiking happiness, then laughs into his mouth as he dips her flamboyantly, so deep her hair almost brushes the snowy ground.

Jaskier tugs her upright, kisses her again with a thoroughness that makes heat pool low in her stomach. “Excited to see me?” he asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Or is this some new fashionable Novigradian greeting that I’m going to have to learn before I’m next in the city?”

“I thought you were wintering in Oxenfurt,” Yennefer says, not letting him go, not letting him move an inch. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, my naiad, but this is _not_ Oxenfurt.”

“It _isn’t?_ ” Jaskier gapes. “What am I going to _do?_ I’ve been misled!”

Yennefer hears Geralt chuckle. “He got into a fight,” he says, arms folded and golden gaze heavy on them. “Got kicked out for causing trouble.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Don’t listen to his simplistic explanation,” he insists. “I was involved in a _minor_ altercation at the music faculty winter formal – which, I might point out, was because the accuracy of certain songs of mine was questioned, Geralt, specifically songs about _you_ and the mighty size of your—”

“I never asked you to write a whole song cycle about my cock,” Geralt interrupts.

“— _humanity_ , Geralt,” Jaskier says primly. “It was an argument about your _humanity_ , witcher, gods, what do you think of me?” He sniffs, looks back to Yennefer. “Anyway, words were exchanged, and then so were fists. Unfortunately one of my intellectual opponents was the Dean of Music and, well, he’s never really liked me anyway. Managed to get me forcibly rusticated for the winter, which is _very_ unfair, if you ask me – how is he ever going to grow as an academic if he can’t deal with—”

“Being punched in the jaw?” Yennefer offers.

“The gut, actually,” Jaskier corrects, then grins at her, leans down and kisses her. “I was lucky enough that Eskel happened to be in the area,” he says, kisses her again. “He made fun of me—” Another kiss. “—but brought me here anyway—” Another, deeper, longer. “—and then Geralt said he could send you word, tell you that I was here waiting for you—” Another, his hand sliding into her hair, his mouth warm and wet. “—but I thought it might be a nice surprise,” he finishes, then smirks. “Was I right?”

“You were right,” Yennefer murmurs, pulls him down to her once more.

“See?” Jaskier crows, wrapping his arm around Yennefer’s shoulders and looking triumphantly over to Geralt. “I was _right_ , Geralt. Bet you’re glad I stopped you sending that letter now!”

Geralt’s watching them, hands loose at his sides, shoulders relaxed and expression surprisingly open – open and _heated_. “Very glad,” he practically _growls_ , and Yennefer hears the hitch in Jaskier’s breathing, knows he sees it, too.

For a second, the three of them are wrapped in the silence of the snow, unmoving.

Geralt takes a step towards them, and at the same time, his voice hoarse, Jaskier says, “Should we—”

Quick footsteps sound through the keep, and Ciri comes crashing into the strange, fraught tension that’s filling the courtyard. “You’re here!” she says brightly, and before Yennefer really knows what’s happening Jaskier’s stepped aside to let Ciri through and her arms are around Ciri’s shoulders, her cheek pressed to her hair, soft and tickling against her neck. “I forgot you were getting here today,” Ciri says, overflowing and overspilling, then takes her hand and tugs her towards the keep proper. “I know you’ll probably want to share with Geralt, or with Jaskier, I don’t know which, but I spent last week tidying a room for you anyway – it has all the books on Chaos that I could find in the library, although Vesemir told me that if we damage any of them, he’d have me running laps around the forest trail for a _month_.”

“I imagine that would only be fair,” Yennefer says. “Some of the volumes here are irreplaceable. The witchers have texts that I’ve never seen in any other library, anywhere on the Continent – not even at Aretuza or Ban Ard.”

Ciri nods, absorbing this. “There were some that he wouldn’t let me take out the library,” she says. “They looked very old, and some of them were written in a language that I didn’t even _recognise_.”

Yennefer nods. “There’s a book in Vesemir’s private collection that I believe even _he_ can’t decode,” she says. “It’s some ancient Skelliger dialect that no one speaks anymore, and because of the _dreadful_ preservation conditions on those godsforsaken islands, no comparable texts have survived. I keep trying to persuade him to let me take it to the Lodge, or even to the academics at Oxenfurt to work out a translation, but he’s a stubborn old bastard.”

“Good to see you too, sorceress,” Vesemir’s dry voice sounds from an open door further along the corridor.

Yennefer flushes a little, and Ciri just giggles at her side.

She spends the rest of the day settling in, reminding herself of the rhythms of the keep and the idiosyncrasies of its inhabitants. Eskel is the only other witcher wintering here this year, and he explains to her, when she runs into him on her way to the hot springs, that it’s because Lambert’s still scared to be around her with no easy escape route. Yennefer laughs at that, and says, “I’m glad he’s learned his lesson, and that he won’t be touching Ciri’s hair anytime soon.”

Eskel shrugs. “He’s actually becoming a fairly competent barber,” he says. “Spent a summer with some girl down in Lyria who taught him a few things. He gave Geralt a trim last winter and _didn’t_ butcher it completely.”

“You should probably remember,” Yennefer says, “that mine and Geralt’s standards for what is acceptable in a haircut are _wildly_ different.”

“I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise,” Eskel says, the corner of his lips twitching upwards in a smile. “After all, I like wintering here. And not having to run for my life every time I hear you’re in town.” He smirks, then sweeps a tiny bow. “Enjoy the springs, my lady sorceress. I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

“Appreciated,” Yennefer says, and goes for a soak.

They gather in the small hall that evening for bowls of Vesemir’s venison stew, accompanied by the fresh—if somewhat lopsided—bread rolls that Ciri made this morning. It’s simple, uncomplicated fare, a far cry from the swan baked in elaborately-gilded pastry Yennefer dined on two weeks ago at the Redanian court, but after a day spent in the cold of the winter and the heat of the springs, it’s delicious. Vesemir brings a bottle of whisky to the table, shares it with Geralt and Eskel, and he does offer it to Yennefer but, frankly, she has very little interest in drinking something that smells quite so strongly of paintstripper.

Jaskier laughs, his expression wry. “I’m afraid that you’ll have to get used to it,” he says, a little morose. “That whisky is as good as it gets up here.”

“I have three bottles of that Kaedwenian red we had in Vengerberg in my bags,” Yennefer says, arching an eyebrow, and she can’t help but smile when his eyes go comically wide. “I would have brought more if I knew that you were going to be here, my naiad, but I suppose we’ll just have to savour what we have.”

Jaskier makes a noise that’s startlingly similar to the noise he makes when he comes. “You,” he says, emphatic and overbright, “are a _goddess_.”

Yennefer smiles, daintily selects another roll and splits it in two. “Oh, I know,” she says, buttering her bread, and doesn’t look up even when she feels Jaskier’s feet tangling with hers under the table.

After Ciri and Geralt have cleared the plates and bowls, Yennefer goes back to her room to fetch the bottle of red. Jaskier’s dug out two surprisingly elegant wineglasses by the time she sweeps back into the small hall, and he’s set up a small table by the fireplace, ready and waiting. As Yennefer gets closer, she realises that the ‘table’ is actually an upended beer barrel with a worn white cloth draped artfully over the top, but it’s more than adequate for their purposes. She pours for them both, then settles down on the bench next to him, touches her glass to his. “To unexpected meetings,” she says, softly enough that even the witchers will struggle to hear her.

Jaskier’s eyes dance in the firelight. “And to you,” he says, simple and direct, and drinks.

Geralt and Ciri emerge from the kitchens before long, soap suds on Ciri’s cheek and an amused tilt to Geralt’s lips. Ciri is telling a story that seems to involve a goose, a rotfiend, and a posy of flowers, her ash-blond hair glinting in the candlelight, and she laughs at whatever the climax of the narrative is, then spots Yennefer and Jaskier by the fire and starts to make a beeline for them. Eskel, however, intercepts her with some question about her horse, a black mare named Kelpie that Ciri spent a good hour this afternoon extolling to Yennefer – and within a few minutes, Ciri is firmly escorting both Eskel _and_ Vesemir out of the small hall, on their way to the stables to, presumably, pamper their horses.

Yennefer doesn’t miss the wink Eskel tosses Geralt on his way out, and Geralt’s answering nod of thanks.

And then it’s just the three of them, alone in the small hall with the wine and the firelight.

Jaskier shifts a little at Yennefer’s side, his thigh pressed to hers, his arm laid out across the back of the bench behind her. “Well,” he says as Geralt comes to sit opposite them, leaning forward, his elbows propped on his knees. “We’d offer you some wine, Geralt, but I could actually only find two of these lovely glasses in the kitchen – and, well, you’ve had enough of that foul whisky that I’m pretty sure you wouldn’t appreciate the tannins of the southern Kaedwenian vineyards.”

“Probably not,” Geralt says, and the smile on his lips is as soft as Yennefer has ever seen it.

There’s quiet for a moment, broken only by the crackling of the fire.

“So,” Yennefer says eventually, her mouth oddly dry. “We should probably talk.”

Jaskier snorts, finishes what’s left in his glass and leans forward to pour another. “That’s all you ever want to do,” he says, affection thick in his voice. “Talk, talk, talk. Not that I’m saying that’s a bad thing, mind you, but sometimes I really think it might be easier if we all just, you know, fell into bed together and then didn’t bother to sort things out in the morning.” He pauses, pulls a face. “Although admittedly that’s exactly how both of us started things with Geralt, my naiad, and that got… _complicated_.”

Geralt hums. “Do I need to apologise to both of you again?” he asks, but his tone is teasing.

“Not right now,” Yennefer answers, then flashes him the smile that she knows from experience makes him sit up and take notice. “Maybe you can get on your knees for us later.”

Geralt’s eyes flare, and Jaskier groans. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, sitting back with a glass that’s probably a little too full. “If we do this, I think it’s going to kill me. I’m only human, after all, and I’m not sure my tender heart can take you two gorgeous borderline immortals at once.”

“Never mind your heart,” Yennefer says, sipping delicately. “How about your cock?”

Jaskier chokes, splutters wine down the front of his doublet.

“Yen,” Geralt says. “Don’t tease.”

“Teasing him is half the fun,” Yennefer answers, but relents. She studies Geralt, her heart rate kicking up a notch. “I know you’re happy for us to be together when we’re apart from you,” she says, hyperaware of how Jaskier still goes at her side, his fingers still dripping with wine. “Does the same apply when we’re with you?” Her breathing is oddly shaky. “Or would you prefer for our relationship with each other to be kept separate from our individual relationships with you?”

“I hadn’t thought about it before,” Geralt says, his voice even lower than normal. “We were never in the same place, so it didn’t really cross my mind. It’s difficult enough keeping track of the two of you separately, the havoc you both cause.”

“Hey!” Jaskier exclaims. “ _She_ leaves a trail of havoc behind her. _I_ merely cause mischief.”

“You’re as bad as each other,” Geralt says dryly, and Yennefer smothers a laugh at Jaskier’s offended scoff. Geralt’s expression shifts, turns a little darker. “This morning, in the courtyard,” he says, voice gravelly, and something twists in Yennefer’s belly. “That was the first time I really thought about it.”

“When you saw us kiss?” Jaskier asks, eyebrow cocked.

Geralt shakes his head. “When you went to him the moment you saw him,” he says, his gaze heavy on Yennefer. “And the look on your face when you did. I knew that you were fucking each other, imagined _that_ a few times when I was travelling alone. And you’d both told me that it was more than that – but Jaskier, you fall in love with everyone, and Yen…” He trails off, shakes his head. “I couldn’t imagine it.”

“Couldn’t imagine me loving him?” Yennefer asks, her voice tight and a little bitter.

Jaskier’s hand settles on her knee, squeezes gently.

“Yeah,” Geralt admits, and his gaze skitters away. He stares into the fire, frowning. “I was wrong,” he says. “And I’m sorry for that.” He pauses, looks back to Yennefer. “That’s what I saw this morning,” he says. “You love him, Yen.” His gaze slides to Jaskier. “And you love her. Not like you love every noble lord and lady who flirts with you.” He takes a breath, oddly shaky. “You love her like you love me.”

“I do,” Jaskier answers, quiet and serious. “I really do, Geralt.”

Warmth blossoms in Yennefer’s chest.

“I don’t want you to hide any part of yourselves from me,” Geralt says, soft enough that his voice blends with the crackling of the fire, the creak of his leathers, the soft tapping of Yennefer’s fingernails against her glass. “I love you both. And if you are willing to share what you have with me, I would be… very happy.”

Yennefer can’t tamp down her smile. She turns to Jaskier, sees that there’s an echoing grin splitting his lips, and says, light and teasing, “I assume that those are your words coming from our witcher’s lips, my naiad?”

Jaskier squeezes her knee. “For once, they’re all his,” he says, warm and uncontrollably affectionate. “Isn’t he growing up? I’m so _proud_.”

Geralt rumbles a laugh. “I’m older than both of you.”

“Which makes the emotional constipation all the more entertaining,” Yennefer observes.

“I’ve changed my mind,” Geralt says, his broad smile belying his words. “I don’t want anything to do with either of you.”

“Pity,” Jaskier practically _purrs_ , and the hand that’s on Yennefer’s knee slides a little higher, his fingers warm through the fabric of her dress. “Because I had all kinds of plans for this evening, Geralt – but I suppose I can rework them for just the two of us if you’re not interested.” He looks at Yennefer, his smile turning a little wicked, then traces a fingertip along her jaw, tilts her closer. “Would you be okay with that?”

“I think I might be,” Yennefer whispers, and closes the space between them in a soft, teasing kiss.

Jaskier kisses her deeply, thoroughly, his hand ghosting across the curve of her neck, his thumb pressing against the hammering of her pulse. Yennefer gives as good as she gets, catching his lower lip between her teeth, running her hand down his chest, softly squeezing the growing bulge of his cock – and they’re putting on a show, flaunting themselves, _taunting_ Geralt with everything he can’t have, can’t touch.

Except, of course, he can.

Jaskier makes an incoherent noise of surprise as he’s pulled away from Yennefer, dragged to his feet, and kissed senseless by a lustful, lusting witcher. Yennefer barely has time to appreciate the view before Geralt turns his attention to her, leaning down to kiss her just as fiercely, just as wantonly, and she would absolutely deny the whimper of sound that escapes her at that point if it didn’t seem to drive Geralt even further to distraction. He hauls her up, his other hand still fixed firmly in the front of Jaskier’s doublet, then growls, “Bed. _Now_.”

“Probably better than us fucking for the first time in the small hall,” Jaskier says brightly. “Not sure Vesemir would be particularly happy with us for that.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt says in warning, at the same time as Yennefer drawls, “ _Don’t_ talk about Vesemir right now, my naiad.”

Jaskier snorts a laugh as Geralt hauls him closer, wraps an arm around his shoulders, then looks between the two of them. “You’re going to have to explain this naiad thing to me,” he says, caught somewhere between bemused and entertained.

Yennefer catches Jaskier’s eye, mirrors his grin. “Take us to bed, Geralt,” she says, “and we’ll _show_ you.”

Geralt’s room is tucked away in a fairly empty corner of the keep, far away from the others, and Yennefer knows that it’s because he values his privacy but right now, tonight, that isolation is going to be useful for another reason. Yennefer’s been here before, of course, spent long nights curled up in the fur-piled bed, bathed in the warmth of a blazing fire, the heat kept inside the stone walls by the muted tapestries hung on the walls, the rough rugs strewn across the floor. There’s a table in one corner that doubles as a desk, a pile of books in one corner, a handful of empty potion vials in another – and, oh, that’s new. A travel-worn notebook that she’s seen in Jaskier’s bags, a scrap of sheet music poking out from between the pages.

For a second, Yennefer imagines her perfume and her correspondence sitting next to that notebook, all three of their belongings tangled up together in the witchers’ keep.

Jaskier wraps himself around her, his chest flush to her back, and presses a kiss to her neck. “You’re looking far too thoughtful,” he murmurs, his hands skating down her stomach, fingertips catching in the embroidery of her dress.

“No need to be jealous,” Yennefer says, tilting her head back, letting out a soft sigh as his teeth graze over the pulse in her throat. “I know it’s difficult for you to have thoughts at the best of times, but you’re doing the best you can.”

Jaskier snorts a laugh. “ _Rude_.”

“She’s not wrong,” Geralt rumbles, and comes to face her, taking her face in his hands and kissing her, sweet and slow and gentle. She rests her hands on his hips, sinks into the kiss, trapped between the warmth of their bodies – no, not trapped, _held_ , safe and precious and loved. Her heart soars in her chest and she kisses Geralt harder.

Jaskier husks a breathy laugh in her ear as his fingers dance down her spine, undoing the long row of tiny buttons that arrows down the back of her dress. “Let’s get you out of this, shall we, my _naiad_?” he murmurs, emphasising the endearment. “Show Geralt exactly what we’ve been hiding from him.”

Yennefer pulls away from Geralt, twists to the side and captures Jaskier’s lips in a fierce, awkward kiss. “I wouldn’t say we’ve been _hiding_ it,” she drawls. “It’s there, written plain for him to see.”

“ _What_ are you two talking about?” Geralt growls, then leans forward, tangles his hand in Jaskier’s hair and kisses him forcefully over Yennefer’s shoulder. “Hiding _what?_ ”

“It was a summer evening in Novigrad,” Jaskier says, flashing Geralt a cheeky grin as he peels Yennefer’s dress open. “The day had been long and hot, sultry, I might even say, and the sun was low in the sky at that late hour, drenching the city in golden light, glinting off the rippling waves and making the docks shine with—”

“We’d been drinking since noon,” Yennefer interrupts, shrugging out of her dress, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. Her undergarments fasten up the front, and Geralt’s hands make quick work of the laces, tugging them open with practiced dexterity. “This was years ago, Geralt,” Yennefer says as Jaskier sweeps her hair to one side, presses soft kisses to her skin, “before either of us reconciled with you. But _after_ I’d had to effect a daring rescue to save our bard from torture and death at the hands of Nilfgaard.”

Jaskier grimaces. “Thanks for the reminder.”

Yennefer reaches back, runs her hand through his hair, presses her cheek to his and closes her eyes, just for a moment. A little to her surprise, she feels Geralt lean in, too, his hand cupping Jaskier’s cheek, his forehead resting against them both – and for a heartbeat they just stand there, whatever frantic need that’s gripping them paused, breathing each other’s air.

Yennefer isn’t sure how she ever survived without this.

Jaskier tilts his chin forward, catches Geralt’s lips in a soft kiss. “We were drunk in Novigrad,” he says, his voice calmer, and helps Geralt strip Yennefer out of the last of her clothes. “We’d got kicked out of whatever bar we’d ended up in for being too loud – I _think_ I was premiering a new song in Yennefer’s honour, but I can’t be entirely sure. So we were wandering down through the streets near to the docks, our gorgeous sorceress hanging off my every word, of course—”

“I was trying to stop him falling flat on his face on the cobbles,” Yennefer corrects, “when a young man called out to us from his shop.” She turns in Geralt’s arms, wholly naked, and starts on the fastenings of Jaskier’s doublet. “He was a tattoo artist,” she says, feeling Geralt’s hands mapping across the curves of her hips, his fingers digging into her skin. “And he was clearly more than used to dealing with the less… salubrious of Novigrad’s clientele.”

“She means that he specialised in tattooing drunk sailors,” Jaskier says brightly, shrugging off his doublet and pulling his shirt over his head. “And hey, we weren’t sailors, but we were drunk enough to be easy prey.”

“Are you saying,” Geralt asks, surprise warring with arousal in his voice, “that you got _tattoos_?”

“Matching tattoos, as well,” Yennefer confirms, yanking impatiently at the laces of Jaskier’s trousers.

Jaskier frowns at Geralt. “You’ve seen me naked a _lot_ , Geralt,” he says, then turns a little, spreads his fingers across the dark ink healed into the skin across his ribs. “Are you really saying that you’d never noticed _this_ before?”

“The lettering?” Geralt asks as Yennefer tugs Jaskier’s trousers and smallclothes down over his hips. “I’ve noticed it. It’s difficult to read at a glance, and I… never really paid much attention to it.”

Jaskier toes off his boots and kicks the rest of his clothes off. “You never paid attention to it,” he repeats, his voice laughing. “Of _course_ you didn’t, my idiot witcher.”

Geralt’s expression is oddly tight. “You didn’t have it before the dragon hunt,” he says, “and then when you found me and Ciri during the war, you did. You never brought it up, never explained it. So I didn’t ask. Figured that if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me – and if you _didn’t_ want me to know, then I had no right to.” His expression stills. “Figured I deserved nothing less.”

Yennefer watches Jaskier’s face spasm, watches the regret and the love that pours across his expression. “Oh, Geralt,” he says, soft and tender, and pulls Geralt towards him, wraps him in his arms. There’s a part of Yennefer that thinks that she should feel like she’s intruding, that this is something private between them, their pain, their heartbreak, but even though their arms are around each other, Geralt’s forehead pressed to the crook of Jaskier’s neck, she knows that this is hers, too. She runs a hand down Geralt’s back, presses a kiss to Jaskier’s shoulder, and almost as one they reach for her, drag her into their embrace without ever letting each other go.

Jaskier lets out a soft sigh, his voice muffled by Geralt’s hair. “I think,” he says, “that you are wearing _entirely_ too many clothes, Geralt.”

“I agree,” Yennefer says, and her hands move to Geralt’s jacket, his shirt, stripping them away as Jaskier reaches for his trousers, undoing the laces with almost _painful_ slowness.

“You haven’t explained the tattoo, Jaskier,” Geralt says, letting himself be undressed, one hand in Jaskier’s hair, the other resting lightly at Yennefer’s waist.

Jaskier hums. “That’s true,” he says, and pulls the laces out of Geralt’s trousers with a flourish. “Let me continue my tale,” he says, crossing the small distance to the bed and collapsing down on his back. “Novigrad. A hot, sticky summer’s eve. We’re lured in by the promise of tattoos, and the lovely young tattooer says to me, ‘I can do you anything, mister! Perhaps the name of your beloved, right above your heart?’ And I’m _very_ confused for a second because, well, you’re not there – but then I realise he’s talking about _Yennefer_.”

“I laughed,” Yennefer says, watching Geralt strip off the last of his clothes, a familiar hunger building in her belly.

“But the whole situation just seemed so unbearably funny,” Jaskier says, lounging back on his elbows, watching them with heat in his gaze, “that we just _had_ to go ahead. So we asked the lovely young man if he could tattoo ‘ _my beloved_ ’ on each of us, and he said he could, and then he suggested that, oh, wouldn’t it be a lot more _elevated_ if it was in _Elder_?”

“Unfortunately,” Yennefer says drily, “he didn’t speak Elder very well.”

“So _fy nghariad_ ,” Jaskier explains, “meaning ‘ _my love_ ’, ‘ _my beloved_ ’, all things that have fortuitously come to be quite appropriate nowadays – became _fy naiad_.”

“My naiad,” Geralt rumbles, and pulls Yennefer to him, his body firm and warm and scarred, his hair falling around her face like a curtain. “You let a young tattooer in Novigrad who didn’t speak Elder tattoo you.”

“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” Yennefer breathes, and tips his head down into another kiss.

“I’m fairly sure he was an apprentice,” Jaskier says, his hand curled loosely around his cock as he watches them kiss. “That would also explain how difficult the letters are to read – honestly, I would have thought that script was one of the _easier_ things to tattoo! I fucked a Skelliger naval officer once who had a ship tattooed across his entire back – _that_ must be tricky. But a few letters on a drunk bard’s ribs? How hard could _that_ be!”

“Hard enough,” Yennefer says. “And _painful_ , too.”

Geralt frowns down at her. “So where’s yours?” he asks, eyebrow raised. “I’ve seen _you_ naked plenty of times, too, Yen, and I’ve never noticed any tattoos.”

Yennefer quirks a half-smile, steps away from him, goes to Jaskier and settles herself in his lap. He presses his chest up against her back, littering kisses across her shoulders, and his hands settle across her bare stomach, sliding inexorably lower. “It’s here,” Yennefer says as one of Jaskier’s hands slips between her legs, his fingers pressing into her. She brushes her thumb to her ribcage, murmurs a quiet word, and the glamour that she holds in place across that tiny patch of skin fades away into the glimmering candlelight, leaving the almost-unreadable black ink bare to the world. “My naiad,” she says, leaning back into Jaskier’s embrace, eyes fluttering shut. “I keep it hidden, unlike _some_ people. Because it’s private. Something just for us.”

“And now,” Jaskier says, his teeth catching at her earlobe, his breath hot against her skin, “for you, too, Geralt.”

Geralt hums, sinks to his knees, and joins his tongue to the slow pace of Jaskier’s fingers. His hands are steady against Yennefer’s thighs, thumbs rubbing circles into her skin, and Jaskier’s other hand dances lightly across her breasts, rolling her nipples between his fingers, pinching in time with the rhythm of Geralt’s tongue.

“Fuck,” Yennefer gasps, hips stuttering upwards.

“In a minute,” Jaskier whispers, smirking. “Got to pay due homage to your nub of delight first.”

Geralt pauses, looks up at them. “Nub of delight?”

Yennefer groans, grabs a handful of his silver-white hair and shoves him back between her legs. “You,” she hisses, grabbing at Jaskier’s hair, this time, “are an embarrassment.” She kisses him possessively, commandingly, almost _violently_. “Now make me come before I decide that keeping you around simply isn’t worth it anymore.”

“As you wish, my lady,” Jaskier says, crooks his fingers, and fucks her brutally hard. Geralt follows suit, licking and sucking with the most obscene noises she’s ever heard, and when his thumb joins Jaskier’s fingers, spreading her open, sinking inside as Jaskier sucks a bruise into her neck, she comes with a hoarse, breaking cry, shuddering through her orgasm, held safe in the embrace of two men who would do anything she asked of them.

“You are so beautiful when you fall apart like that,” Jaskier murmurs, slipping his fingers free and, _oh_ , pressing them into Geralt’s mouth to be sucked clean. He eases her down to the bed, presses a fleeting kiss to the dark tattoo on her ribs, then looks back to Geralt, still kneeling on the floor at the edge of the bed. “I seem to remember something about you getting on your knees for us,” he says, his attempt at nonchalance thoroughly wrecked by the unabashed lust in his voice.

Yennefer watches, lounging on her side, catching her breath, as Geralt leans forward and gently digs his teeth into the meat of Jaskier’s inner thigh. Jaskier groans, his head falling back, his eyes sliding shut, but Yennefer can’t tear her gaze away as Geralt takes Jaskier’s cock into his mouth. His lips are stretched wide, his hand wrapped around the base, and he works up and down at an almost leisurely pace, the look in his eyes just as intent as it is when he’s oiling his swords for battle, when he’s sparring with his witcher brothers, when he’s rubbing down his horse after a long day on the road.

“ _Geralt_ ,” Jaskier chokes out. “Oh, _gods_ , your _mouth_.”

Yennefer shifts closer, trails her fingertips down Jaskier’s chest, replaces Geralt’s hand with her own. She strokes Jaskier’s cock as Geralt hollows his cheeks and sucks at the head, then noses at Jaskier’s cheek, licks at the sweat beading along his stubbled jaw. “Don’t come, Jaskier,” she murmurs, and Jaskier gives a strangled yelp that makes Geralt chuckle. “ _Don’t_ ,” Yennefer says, firmer, and squeezes her fingers tight around the base of his cock. “I want to ride you, and then I want to watch Geralt come inside you. When we’re both done, you can come any way you want.”

Jaskier moans. “Are you _trying_ to kill me, Yennefer?”

Yennefer laughs, releases him, and claims his lips in a hard kiss. “I just want to find out how much your human cock can take,” she says, scratching her nails over his nipples. “For research purposes, you understand.”

“You _do_ like to tease him,” Geralt says, his voice even more gravelly than usual, and he moves up the bed, braces himself above Yennefer and kisses her. He tastes of her and of Jaskier at the same time, sharp and salty on his tongue, and then he shifts, dips to the side to share that taste with Jaskier, too – and Yennefer’s starting to realise that there are very few things in this world that she finds more erotic than watching her lovers kiss. She pushes Geralt out of the way, straddles Jaskier’s lap and sinks down onto his spit-slick cock, sighs in bone-deep satisfaction and starts to move, rocking her hips just the way she likes, still a little oversensitive, fire sparking through her with every movement.

“Oh, fuck,” Jaskier groans, arching up against the bed. “ _Yennefer_ , gods, I fucking love you and I fucking love fucking you, _oh_ , the way you _feel_ —”

“If you keep talking like that,” Geralt growls, “you’ll talk yourself into coming before she wants you to.” He kneels on the mattress, coaxes Jaskier up onto his elbows, then guides Jaskier’s mouth to his cock. “Focus on something else,” he instructs, his hand running gently through Jaskier’s hair. “Focus on me. Focus on my cock in your mouth.” Jaskier moans softly, eyes half-closed, and Yennefer rocks her hips harder, feeling her heart beating faster, her arousal spiking higher at the sight of him, sprawled out and wanton, taking so much pleasure in bringing _them_ pleasure. “Gods,” Geralt husks, fingers tightening in Jaskier’s hair, and the rasp in his voice sends a bolt of ecstasy straight to Yennefer’s heart. “Jaskier,” he groans. “Fuck, you look so good like this. So godsdamned _beautiful_.”

Jaskier makes a tiny whimpering noise at the back of his throat and he thrusts up into Yennefer harder, faster, one of his hands gripping her hip, encouraging her to move with him. She matches his thrusts, riding him harder – and all of a sudden it hits her. Geralt’s words of praise, Jaskier’s answering whimper. The stuttering, ragged way he’s fucking into her, counterpointed with the laxness of his body, boneless and slack.

Months ago, in passing, Yennefer told Geralt how Jaskier fell apart above and inside her at the simplest words of praise, at the quietest whisper of genuine joy in his ear. She told him, saw the surprise blossom in his eyes, the surprise and the _intrigue_ – and now here she is as Geralt carefully, slowly, oh so gently takes Jaskier to pieces with the knowledge that _she_ gave him.

Yennefer’s orgasm is unexpected and all-encompassing.

She collapses onto the mattress of the overcrowded bed, thighs still trembling, aftershocks of pleasure rumbling through her body. She lies there for a second, catching her breath, and then Geralt’s looming over her, leaning across Jaskier to kiss her, soft and gentle. She chases his lips as he pulls away, snatching another kiss before he leaves her, and she falls back, watches as he slips out of the bed. “Leaving so soon?” she asks, her voice more wrecked than she’d like to admit.

Jaskier laughs, rolls onto his side and nuzzles against her shoulder. His lips are red and slick with spit. “I think he’s working on the next stage of your instruction, Yennefer,” he says, kissing her, messy and wet. “You’ve ridden me to what looked like a fairly lovely orgasm. What was next on the list? Oh yeah – you want to watch Geralt come inside me.”

Yennefer hums, runs her hand down Jaskier’s side, digging her fingers into the swell of his arse a little harder than is strictly necessary. “I can’t help it,” she murmurs against his lips, kissing him, chasing his tongue with hers. “You never look prettier than when you’re spread open and _panting_.” The bed dips as Geralt rejoins them, and Yennefer meets his gaze over Jaskier’s shoulder. “Wouldn’t you agree, Geralt?”

“I would,” Geralt says, thick with lust, and his slick fingers ghost across Yennefer’s, dripping oil across Jaskier’s skin. Yennefer coaxes Jaskier’s thigh up, watches him shift his position to give Geralt easier access, and Yennefer doesn’t have to be a sorceress to know when Geralt’s fingers slide into him. Jaskier’s eyes roll back in his head, his mouth gaping wide, and he groans, loud and unashamed. Geralt laughs softly, kisses a bruise into Jaskier’s neck, then looks up at Yennefer. “He’s still loose from when I fucked him this morning,” he says, heat and want and _humour_ blazing in his eyes. “Didn’t know when I’d get to have him again, given that you were arriving today. Wanted to make sure he remembered me.”

Jaskier groans. “Difficult to forget you with half your fucking hand in my arse,” he gasps.

Geralt shrugs, seemingly unaffected by the naked, panting, writhing bard caught between them. “Didn’t think _this_ was where we’d end up.”

Yennefer reaches over Jaskier, trails her fingertips down Geralt’s cheek, catching in his stubble. “Would you prefer to be elsewhere?” she asks, and it’s mostly a joke but she realises as she’s speaking that there’s a grain of truth there, too.

Geralt turns his head, kisses her fingertips. “No,” he says. “This is what I want. For as long as I can have it.”

Yennefer feels her heart fluttering in her chest, light and so fucking _free_. “Forever,” she says, she _promises_ , and Jaskier moans in accompaniment to her words, musical and eloquent and unashamed in his pleasure. “You have us forever.”

Something flickers in Geralt’s eyes, something she can’t quite identify. “I love you, Yen,” he murmurs, and leans forward to kiss her.

Beneath them, Jaskier makes a noise that’s half offended, half painfully aroused. “As much as I really do love watching you two kiss,” he says, sounding utterly _ruined_ , “and while it’s always wonderful to hear my emotionally-repressed lover confess his love for my other emotionally-deprived lover, I am _really_ going to need you to get on with it and fuck me, Geralt.”

“What do you think, Yen?” Geralt rumbles, kissing her again. “Shall I?”

Yennefer hums, kisses him slow and languorous. “I think,” she says, quiet and sensual, “that you should put on a show for me.”

Geralt’s eyes flare, and Jaskier moans. “Oh, fuck, _Yennefer_ ,” he chokes out, red spots high and bright on his cheeks, sweat starting to slick his hair to his forehead. “You are frankly _terrifying_ and I am so completely in love with you.”

Geralt laughs, and as Yennefer sprawls back against the pillows, he hauls Jaskier to his knees, presses his chest flush to their bard’s back and brackets his arm across his collarbones, pinning him in place. “You are _relentless_ ,” Yennefer hears him mutter in Jaskier’s ear, but any sharp response that Jaskier was going to make is lost when Geralt pushes into him, slow and steady and, oh, fuck, this is the most gorgeous sight Yennefer has ever seen. Geralt’s arms, thick and scarred and so godsdamned safe, holding Jaskier still as he fucks him, Jaskier’s hands arched back and gripped tight in Geralt’s hair, his mouth open, eyes closed, body jerking with every thrust.

“I’m going to get this painted,” Yennefer murmurs. “I’ll have it done in oils and hang it in the salon of my house in Novigrad.”

Jaskier laughs, a punched-out, breathy sound. “Not sure that your sorcerer friends will appreciate your taste in art,” he manages, surprisingly coherent given how thoroughly Geralt seems to be fucking him.

“You’re right,” Yennefer says, casually running her fingertips up Jaskier’s thigh, delighting in the jumping tension of his muscles. “I’ll put it in my bedroom instead. I don’t want anyone seeing this but me.”

Jaskier’s eyes are dark and wicked, and he groans as Geralt buries his teeth in his shoulder, hard enough to bruise. “Would you get yourself off?” he asks, his hands flexing in Geralt’s hair. “Would you touch yourself while looking at that lovely oil painting, thinking about us fucking? Thinking about Geralt’s cock in my arse, in my mouth? Thinking about his come dripping out of me when he’s done?”

Geralt moans, eyes screwed shut, and presses his head into Jaskier’s shoulder. His fingertips are dug so hard into Jaskier’s chest that his knuckles are white as bone.

Yennefer meets Jaskier’s wicked gaze and smirks. “I’d have you both pictured in the moment of orgasm,” she says, digging her nails into his thigh. “Geralt’s teeth in your throat, his hand around your cock. The look on his face as he came – sheer _ecstasy_.” Her lips curl. “I wouldn’t be able to look at it without remembering you both,” she says, quieter, and Jaskier’s eyes go a little glassy as Geralt fractionally shifts his angle, hips rabbiting faster than Yennefer thinks is humanly possible. “I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep at night,” she says, “if I hadn’t already made myself come with both your names on my lips.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, and then, “ _Yen_.”

“Fuck, Geralt,” Jaskier chokes, cranes his neck back, crushes Geralt’s lips to his in an awkward, off-balance kiss. Geralt makes a muffled whining moan, then slams into Jaskier one last time, his jaw going slack as he comes.

“Exactly like this,” Yennefer says softly, studying Geralt’s expression, the sheer boneless relaxation that she’s only ever seen on his face after sex. “ _Perfect_.” She grins. “Now, if you could just hold this position for a few hours, I’ll portal to Novigrad, find an artist, and we’ll come back to do some initial sketches.”

“Try Oxenfurt instead,” Jaskier advises, hoarse and breathless, as Geralt shifts, pulling out of him. “I know a _very_ talented portrait artist in Oxenfurt – has a studio on Divinity Row. She’s always in high demand, but she _does_ owe me a favour.”

“Stop talking about painting,” Geralt growls, then slumps back against the pillows, limbs loose and relaxed.

Jaskier sits back on his heels and looks at them both sprawled out across the bed, his expression disbelieving. He gestures at himself, flushed and hard. “Is anyone going to do anything about this?” he asks, his voice pitching a little higher. “Or am I just going to have to jerk myself off while you two take a nap?”

“A nap sounds good,” Geralt rumbles, throwing his arm across his eyes.

Jaskier splutters in outrage.

Yennefer takes pity on him and curls her fingers around his cock, strokes him slow and teasing – and as she stares up at him, the flush in his cheeks, the wild mess of his hair, the brightness of his eyes and the bruised red of his lips, something twists in her heart. “We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for you,” she says suddenly, unexpectedly sincere, and Jaskier’s gaze flicks to her, startled. She doesn’t slow her hand on his cock, delighting in how he trembles at her touch, her words, her _love_. “I don’t think I would have known how to forgive Geralt if you hadn’t shown me how,” she says, feeling Geralt pause at her side, “and he _definitely_ wouldn’t have had the words to apologise in the way he wanted to without you.”

“They were his words,” Jaskier says, a little choked. “I just… rearranged them a bit.”

“You walked up to my table that day in Vizima,” Yennefer says, stroking him faster, watching as his eyes shut and his mouth falls open, “without knowing how I was going to react. I could have pushed you away. At first, I _did_ push you away – but you stood there with a bottle of Est Est in your hand, offering companionship, offering friendship. Offering _yourself_ , and expecting nothing in return.”

Jaskier gasps out a moan, pitches forward onto his hands and knees between them, his arms shaking.

“I wouldn’t have come to find either of you,” Geralt says, low in his throat, and Yennefer feels his hand wrap around hers, squeezing a little harder, moving a little faster. “I didn’t think either of you ever wanted to see me again, and I thought you were better off without me.” His hand slips away, moves lower, and Yennefer watches as Jaskier’s face contorts in pleasure. “When I saw you in that tavern in Temeria, I thought I was dreaming. When you looked up at me…” He trails off, and Jaskier whimpers into the quiet. “I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt says, astonishingly gentle. “I love you for forgiving me, and I love you for bringing Yen back to me.”

“Please,” Jaskier gasps, his head hanging low. “ _Please_.”

“You’re alright,” Geralt says, soft and full of adoration. “We have you.”

Yennefer curls into Jaskier, feeling the trembling of his arms, the panting of his breath, the stutter of his hips as he does his best to fuck into her hand. “Come for us,” she whispers in his ear.

Jaskier makes an utterly incoherent noise, choking and broken and panting, and comes across the blankets beneath him, body twitching, lungs hitching. “Oh, fuck,” he husks, clearly struggling to catch his breath, wheezing painfully loud. “ _Fuck_.”

Geralt pulls him against his chest, wrapping his arms around him, pressing his nose to Jaskier’s sweaty hair. “Hey,” he rumbles. “You’re safe. Just breathe.”

Yennefer shifts closer, presses her hand flat to Jaskier’s back. “Too much?” she asks softly.

Jaskier makes a sound that could be agreement, could be denial, she’s not really sure, and collapses onto Geralt’s chest, utterly spent. Geralt laughs softly, kisses his forehead and wraps one arm around his shoulders. “I think you broke him, Yen.”

“He was the one demanding attention,” Yennefer says wryly. “It’s not my fault if he can’t take it.”

Geralt carefully rolls Jaskier off his chest and onto the mattress, then strips the frankly _ruined_ blanket out from under them and tosses it into the corner of the room. Yennefer traces patterns through the hair on Jaskier’s chest as Geralt stokes the fire, and she listens carefully to their bard’s breathing, making sure he’s calm, making sure he’s okay, because she’s more than happy to drive him to the brink and beyond, to make him moan and gasp and _beg_ – but the last thing she wants is to see him harmed. His chest is rising and falling steadily, now, and by the time Geralt comes back to bed with a damp cloth, Jaskier is pretty much entirely asleep. He barely stirs as Geralt cleans him up, hums softly when Yennefer tosses a clean blanket over them both, sighs, soft and gentle, as Geralt slides under the covers to join them.

“If we’re going to do this again,” Yennefer says, brushing stray strands of hair out of Geralt’s eyes, “you’re going to need to get a bigger bed.”

Geralt cocks an eyebrow. “If?”

Jaskier sighs, flops a hand against Geralt’s chest. “When,” he says, slurred with sleep. “ _When_.”

Yennefer laughs. “Go to sleep, bard,” she says, presses her palm flat against his bare stomach, kisses his shoulder. “I think you need it.”

Jaskier hums quietly. His hand slides off Geralt’s chest, limp and lax, and he’s asleep in moments.

Geralt intertwines his fingers with Yennefer’s, bracketed across Jaskier’s body, keeping him still, keeping him safe. “Thank you, Yen,” he says, his expression soft and open. “For all of this.”

Yennefer smiles. “I didn’t do it for you,” she says, squeezing his fingers tighter, then slings her leg over Jaskier’s thighs, runs her free hand through his hair. “Didn’t do it for him, either.” She smiles as Jaskier shifts in his sleep, his forehead unlined, his lips slightly parted. “I’m here because I want to be here, Geralt,” she says, meeting his gaze. “I’m here because you make me happy, and because—for some strange reasons that I haven’t managed to work out yet—so does he.”

Geralt rumbles a laugh. “He’s like that,” he says. “Annoying.”

“Loud,” Yennefer contributes.

“Stubborn,” Geralt adds. “Has little regard for his own safety.”

“ _Awful_ taste in clothes.”

“Impractical, too.”

“Flirts with every lord, lady, barmaid, stablehand, furrier, musician, and coachman he comes across.”

Geralt snorts. “Composes songs for them all, too.”

“Insists on _singing_ those songs,” Yennefer says. “Incessantly.”

“At all hours of the day and night.”

“Do you think he’s bewitched us?” Yennefer asks, her smile as warm as the summer sun. “That he’s some kind of magical being, driven by sex and music and expensive clothing? That if we don’t stop him, he’ll drain us of all our life force with his unstoppable cheeriness?”

Geralt laughs softly, shakes his head. “He’s just a bard, Yen.”

Yennefer smiles. “All the more precious for it,” she murmurs.

Geralt brings her hand to his lips, kisses her knuckles. “I love you.”

“I love you,” Yennefer answers, safe and warm in the cocoon of their bed.

Contentment blazes bright in Geralt’s yellow-gold eyes.

Yennefer closes her eyes, relaxes into the softness of the furs and the plumpness of the pillows, and lets out a soft sigh. She falls asleep to Jaskier’s soft snores and Geralt’s sleeping twitches, to the warmth of their bodies and the mismatched rhythm of their heartbeats, and right here, right now, in the sleepy, lazy peace of Geralt’s bed at Kaer Morhen, she thinks she might have everything she ever wanted.


	6. Chapter 6

**[PODFIC MOBILE STREAMING LINK | 01:49:58](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_%20pt6.mp3) **

[full podfic downloads available in chapter 7]

* * *

_and one more._

The bare branches of the cherry tree outside scratch at the half-open windowpane with every gust of wind, every breath of autumn breeze. It’s an irregular, arhythmic noise, grating and uneven, and it drags Yennefer into wakefulness much earlier than she’d like.

She pushes her hair out of her eyes and glares at the offending window, momentarily pondering whether she can justifiably draw on her Chaos to pull it to without getting out of bed. It’s too early for that kind of focus, though, so she sighs, moves Jaskier’s arm from around her waist, and slips out from under the covers. He shifts a little in his sleep, forehead furrowing, empty hand flexing against the sheets, but then Geralt unconsciously curls tighter around him, breathing even, forehead pressed safe and secure to the back of Jaskier’s neck.

Jaskier quiets, and Yennefer can’t help but smile.

She pads naked across the soft rugs and the hardwood floors of Jaskier’s Oxenfurt bedroom, pulls the window shut, and stands at the sill for a moment, looking out over the grassy quads and golden stone of Oxenfurt. It’s late autumn, the trees dripping with red-gold leaves and the air carrying just the faintest hint of the chill of winter proper, and Yennefer watches a pair of students scurry along the path to the library, wrapped up warm in scarves and cloaks, piles of books and papers in their arms. She wonders if they’re Jaskier’s students, but they turn into the library before she can get a glimpse of their faces.

There’s a jug of apple juice sitting on Jaskier’s desk, perched between a pile of half-corrected student compositions and a couple of pages of Jaskier’s own poetry, the original lines scribbled over and scratched out and reworked more times than Yennefer can make out. Quiet as she can, Yennefer pads to the desk and pours herself a cup of juice, sips it slowly as she thumbs through the half-finished poems, reading a word here, a few lines there. Most of it seems to be some epic tale of two mythological lovers whose names Yennefer vaguely recognises, clearly loaded with intellectual in-jokes and complex allusions, but she has no time for that kind of academic game-playing this early in the morning. She puts them to one side, sips the apple juice, and picks up a lone sheet of paper, not quite as covered in Jaskier’s scribbling as the others. It’s barely a few lines, in fact, and Yennefer reads them absently, only half paying attention.

Then she pauses, frowns, and reads again.

_Is this twilight? Is this ending?  
Is this all my time unbending?  
Rivers flow, leaves turn gold,  
evening fades to darkness cold.  
My song is sung, my race is run.  
All I am is done, undone. _

A cold hand closes around Yennefer’s heart.

She sets the apple juice down with a hand that’s oddly shaky and looks back to the bed. Geralt is wrapped around Jaskier, arm around his waist, legs tangled together beneath the expensive blankets that were a birthday gift from Ciri a few summers ago, and the two of them are as noisy and disruptive as ever in their sleep, Jaskier snoring, Geralt twitching every few moments, an irritatingly loud symphony that Yennefer has spent years now figuring out how to sleep through. Geralt is the same as he’s ever been, silver-white hair splayed out across the pillows, maybe a few more scars here and there – and Jaskier is no different to how he was yesterday, he hasn’t changed while they slept, no, he’s the same as he was last night when Yennefer watched him laugh and choke and gasp and fall apart.

Yennefer takes a wavering step towards the bed, his poem clutched in her hand.

There’s grey in Jaskier’s hair. This isn’t a new thing, of course, and Yennefer has been mocking him for it for the last few years, winding her fingertips around the silvering strands and pointing them out in every mirror they pass. He takes her teasing with a roll of his eyes and an answering jibe about her outfit, or her hairstyle, or her fixation on wearing the same perfume every day for the last hundred years or however old you are, my naiad, _gods_ , you’re lucky I’m into older women. And then the conversation segues into other things, lighter things, and that means that Yennefer has never really consciously thought about it, about the grey in his hair, about the lines around his eyes, about the pair of carefully-polished eyeglasses that sit on top of the half-marked compositions on his desk.

 _My song is sung_ , Jaskier wrote, _my race is run_.

Jaskier is human, and therefore mortal. Yennefer knows this, _of course_ she knows this, he’s a fragile, insignificant mortal caught between a witch and a witcher – and maybe that’s why he always ends up sleeping between her and Geralt, because they both feel that deep, aching need to keep him safe. And Yennefer knows that she will _always_ keep him safe, that she will strike down any fucker who _dares_ touch what’s hers.

But there are some things she can’t keep him safe from.

Humans are mortal. They get old, and they slow, and they die – that’s just what they _do_. Their lives are short and bright and they burn out so quickly, mayflies dancing in the twilight.

Not him. Oh, _not him_.

All of a sudden, Yennefer can’t be here anymore.

She finds her dress, thrown haphazardly over the back of a chair in the flurry of last night, and she pulls it on, her hands trembling as she fumbles through the buttons and the hooks and the laces, _gods_ , why do her clothes have to be so complicated? Her cloak is in the main room of Jaskier’s suite, she knows, along with her shoes – but her stockings, where are her _fucking_ stockings? She searches for a moment until she finds them, tangled up with Geralt’s trousers, shoved half under the bed.

“Yen?”

Geralt’s peering up at her, eyes half-lidded, a little bleary, as loose and relaxed as she’s ever seen him outside of Kaer Morhen. Jaskier sleeps on in his arms, dead to the world.

Yennefer slips her stockings on, flashes Geralt as much of a smile as she can manage. “Go back to sleep.”

Geralt shifts, props himself up on one elbow – and pain flashes through Yennefer’s heart as Jaskier stirs, burrowing deeper under the blankets. He doesn’t wake, thank all the gods. “Why are you dressed, Yen?” Geralt asks, his voice thick with sleep.

“I’ve been called away,” Yennefer says, soft as she can, and the lie is bitter on her tongue but it’s all she can bring herself to say right now. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Do you need help?” Geralt asks, worry creeping into his half-awake voice. “I can—”

“Go back to sleep,” Yennefer says, firmer, then steels herself and nods to Jaskier, snoring softly, his face buried in the pillows. “I won’t be here for his recital tomorrow, so you’ll have to pretend to be interested in Redanian balladry for both of us.”

Geralt groans, but lowers himself back down to the warmth of the bed. “Be safe, Yen,” he murmurs, drawing Jaskier back into his arms, greying hair and thinning skin and fading eyesight, all of him, all his fragility, all his frailty. Jaskier interrupts his quiet snores long enough to let out a soft sigh of contentment, his sleeping face turning towards Geralt like a flower seeking the sun. Geralt murmurs something too soft for Yennefer to hear, buries his face in Jaskier’s hair, and goes back to sleep.

Anything else Yennefer might say dies in her throat.

She goes, takes her horse from the Academy’s stables, and rides.

It takes her a few days to reach Novigrad on horseback, by which time she’s just about managed to quell the overriding impulse to rip the world to shreds around her until it bends to her whim. She goes to her house, leaves the dripping, panting stallion to the small staff who maintain the place when she’s not around, and goes straight to her library, pulls a dozen volumes off the shelves and piles them on the reading desk. She pauses for a few moments when her housekeeper—a short, red-cheeked woman named Roksana—comes in, raps out orders for food, drink, and peace and _fucking_ quiet, then settles herself at the desk and starts to read.

She starts with the basic, the _Ars Magica_ , alongside Richert and Monck’s _Natural Magic_. Neither of them gets her anywhere significant, although there are a few footnotes that direct her to other sources that might be of interest. She finds a scrap of parchment, scribbles down the names. A brief skim of _The Arcane Mysteries of Magic and Alchemy_ proves that the damn thing is as useless as always, probably because Lunin and Tyrss were men, and mortal men at that – gods, she doesn’t know why she even keeps this fucking thing around, it would be more useful as a bloody _doorstop_. Yennefer shoves it off the desk with a thud, is interrupted briefly by Roksana carrying a plate of suckling pig and a glass of Est Est – except no, gods, no, she shakes her head at the Est Est, asks for water, says she has to keep a clear head because she can’t think about that night in Vizima all those years ago, the weight of the bottle of Est Est in Jaskier’s hand, the brightness of his smile, the richness of his laugh.

Yennefer buries herself in the _Liber Tenebrarum_ and Joslyn’s _A History of Mortal Magick_ , finds very little, then tries Monck’s _The Magic of the Elder Folk_ – which, fuck, did she really think was going to help? This isn’t about the Elder folk and their magic, isn’t about elves or fae or any of the other half-legendary races that Yennefer still isn’t entirely sure she believes in. This is about Jaskier. This is about _saving_ Jaskier.

Yennefer takes a shaky breath, and reads on into the night.

 _The Annals of Aldis, Sorcerer of Lyria and Magician of Ban Ard_. A few intriguing footnotes, and a single page debunking a ritual that the grandmothers of Skellige swear by. Yennefer adds it to the pile with _Natural Magic_ and _Ars Magica_.

 _Liber Mortalium Immortaliumque_. A fucking poetry collection, why does she have a fucking poetry collection? She throws it on top of _Arcane Mysteries_.

 _The End of Life_. A medical textbook which Yennefer initially dismisses as more relevant to the scholars in the medical faculty at Oxenfurt – but it has an interesting afterword, written by a sorceress who, by the sounds of it, owed the Dean of Medicine a favour. The afterword speaks of mortality, of death and of dying, and of those who can overcome it: sorcerers and elves and witchers, and the other mutants, freaks, and outcasts that human society likes to shun. It’s a daring essay for such a textbook, and Yennefer finds herself oddly fascinated – but then she reads the last paragraph, and her fingers spasm tight around the book’s pages.

 _The search for immortality has occupied the great thinkers of humankind for centuries past, and will occupy them for centuries to come_ , the sorceress writes. _None have yet managed to solve the central problem: Chaos. It has been shown that all those who have some degree of longevity or potential immortality—I speak in particular of elves, of magic-users, and of those mutated humans that the common folk call witchers—are beholden to Chaos, imbued with it in some essential way. The conclusion that must be drawn, therefore, is that Chaos is the key to any potential solution to human mortality._

“Bullshit,” Yennefer says to the silence of the library, and slams the book shut.

Jaskier doesn’t have a drop of Chaos in him.

It’s the small hours of the morning by the time Yennefer’s eyes finally grow so heavy that she has to rest. She sleeps for a few hours, wakes before dawn, then goes back to the books, wrapped in a worn, old dress that isn’t fit for public presentation but is eminently comfortable and perfect for this kind of research. Roksana brings in breakfast, smoked kippers and fresh bread, a mug of herbal tea and, offered with a pause, a small glass of whisky.

Yennefer accepts with a soft, apologetic thanks. “Any correspondence?”

“A few letters,” Roksana says, setting them on the desk next to her. “Do you know how long you’ll be staying with us, Madam Yennefer?”

“Only a few days, I expect,” Yennefer says, her lips tight. “If I don’t find what I need here, I’ll need to take my business to Aretuza, maybe even Ban Ard.”

“Shall I send word for them to expect you?” Roksana asks.

Yennefer looks back to her books for a moment, to the tower of useless tomes that’s built up on top of _Arcane Mysteries_ , to the significantly smaller pile of volumes with a minor footnote or a few paragraphs that might help, and feels nervy, anxious fear scraping at her gut. “Yes,” she says. “And tell them I’ll need access to their libraries.”

Roksana nods, and leaves her to it.

Yennefer spends three days in her Novigrad lodgings, barely leaving her library for a few scant hours of sleep a night, and by the time she’s done there are barely a handful of books left on the shelves. The rest are scattered around the library in a series of complex, intricate piles, and for a moment she considers putting them back before she leaves, devoting a few hours to making sure that everything’s in its place, but she doesn’t have time. There’s a long list of books that she needs to consult, of avenues she needs to explore, along with a small sheaf of notes that she’s taken so far, notes on names of rituals, of elixirs, of ancient alchemists and human inventors, and maybe it will all come to nothing but it’s _something_.

She has to do something.

The dress she wore in Oxenfurt is still sitting in a heap on the floor of her bedroom. Normally it would have been tidied away by the maid days ago, but Yennefer sent the staff home that first morning back, not wanting anything by way of distraction. She picks it up off the floor with a sigh, drapes it over the back of the chair set in front of her dressing table – and freezes as a small scrap of paper flutters to the floor, folded and creased, crumpled and worn.

Yennefer’s heart twists in her chest.

She should leave it. She should have fucking left it on Jaskier’s desk in the first place, but it was in her hand as she fled Jaskier’s rooms, in her hand as she fled the Academy, in her hand as she rode out of Oxenfurt as fast as her horse could carry her. She barely even noticed that it was there until the sun was high in the sky, and then she folded it up tight, pushed it into her pocket, and did her best to forget about it – but she _can’t_ forget. She _can’t_.

Yennefer bends down, picks up the paper, smoothes it out.

_All I am is done, undone._

Yennefer folds the poem neatly, precisely, and tucks it into her half-packed travelling bag along with her own sheaf of notes.

She spends one more night in Novigrad, and despite the bitterness in her heart, the roughness in her gut, she sleeps like a log. She sleeps the deep, dreamless sleep of the utterly exhausted, and when she wakes, she doesn’t feel _refreshed_ , per se, but she feels motivated. Determined. She knows what she has to do, and she knows where she has to go to do it.

Yennefer spends a fortnight in the archives at Aretuza, fingers stained with ink and bookdust settling into the lining of her clothes. She doesn’t find what she needs, so she goes to Ban Ard, loses herself in the sorcerers’ library, pisses off the librarian with her perfumes and her disdain for his shelfmark system. She doesn’t find what she needs, so she goes to Oxenfurt. By now it’s late enough in the year that Jaskier will have gone with Geralt to Kaer Morhen, so she won’t run into him in the cloisters, won’t hear his voice echoing across the quads. She can wrap herself up in the libraries and the scholars, search through their obscure, arcane histories, the volumes of magical histories that Tissaia would _murder_ to get her hands on.

She doesn’t find what she needs.

But there are other collections, other pools of knowledge. Of course she’s not going to find an answer in the schools and the academies, no, of _course_ not, nowhere that mainstream will have the information she needs – so she goes elsewhere, to black market collections, to forbidden histories, to men with greasy hands and women with daggers hidden in their skirts. She pays what she needs to pay, she bribes who she has to bribe, she threatens who she has to threaten. She reads of banned magics, rituals of death and torture, fanciful spells dreamed up by disturbed minds, legends and artefacts and all kinds of bullshit that doesn’t exist, could _never_ exist – but every time she turns a page, there’s hope. Every time she opens a new book, there’s hope.

Autumn fades into winter, and winter fades into spring.

Yennefer doesn’t find what she needs.

The days are warm and long, the skies hot and blue when Yennefer opens a portal to Kaer Morhen.

Vesemir finds her in his library uninvited, elbow-deep in a pile of tattered old scrolls that crumble at the edges a little more every time she touches them. “ _Yennefer_ ,” he snaps, a fire alight in his eyes that she’s never seen before. “What in the name of all the _gods_ do you think you’re doing?”

“Research,” Yennefer answers, short and sharp because she _does not_ have time for this.

Vesemir snatches the scrolls out of her hands, surprisingly fast for an old man – and yet remarkably careful, astonishingly gentle, cradling the crumbling things in his deadly hands. “You cannot read these, witch,” he says, and, oh, it’s been a long time since a witcher called her _witch_ in anger. “These are not for you.”

“They were written by members of the Brotherhood,” Yennefer says tightly, her fingers closing on empty air. “Or their predecessors, at least. They are as much mine as they are yours.”

“They are _not yours!_ ” Vesemir practically roars – and Yennefer has seen the old witcher angry before, seen him frustrated and irritated and flat-out pissed off, but she’s never seen him furious like this. He slams his palm down on the desk next to her, his unwaned strength reverberating through the wood. “You are permitted through our wards because you are our friend,” he grits out, yellow eyes flashing with fury. “You are permitted to winter here because you are as much a parent to Cirilla as Geralt is. But you are _not_ permitted to simply use these records for _research_ like they are some academic curiosity – do you even know what they _are_?”

“They are how you were _made_ ,” Yennefer snaps back, on her feet before she really knows what she’s doing. Chaos crackles across her skin, unbidden. “These scrolls tell of how you witchers were created, Vesemir, of how your lives were stretched out beyond the span of human years.” Her voice cracks, just a little, and Vesemir’s expression stills. His eyes are bright and piercing. “There are gaps in the formulae,” Yennefer pushes onwards, “and it’s clearly an early draft of whatever final concoction that they pumped you with in the Trials, but if I can—”

“The secret is lost, Yennefer,” Vesemir says, his voice oddly calm. “We cannot make more witchers.”

Yennefer shakes her head. “I don’t want to make more witchers,” she says, tight and breaking. “Gods, no, _more_ idealistic, irritating monster hunters? That’s the _last_ thing I want.” She knows it’s insensitive even as the words spill from her lips, but she can’t stop. She blunders onwards. “All I need is longevity, Vesemir. One part of your witcher mutations, and not even the most dangerous. With the formulae in those scrolls, and with certain texts I’ve seen at Ban Ard, I think I can—”

“You can’t save him,” Vesemir interrupts.

Yennefer’s heart goes cold. “Excuse me?”

“Your bard,” Vesemir says, and his words are surprisingly soft. “You can’t save him, Yennefer. Not from this. Not _like_ this.”

Yennefer takes a step away from him, not quite able to stop her lips baring in a snarl. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she snaps, high and arrogant.

Vesemir’s gaze is flat and unrelenting. “You think you’re the first of that songbird’s lovers I’ve found frantically rooting through these records?” he asks, carefully setting the crumbling scrolls back down on the desk between them. “Geralt stood where you stand, years ago, and I told him then what I’ll tell you now: it cannot be done.”

“Vesemir—”

“The Trials killed seven out of every ten boys that went through them,” Vesemir says flatly. “And they were _boys_ , Yennefer. Young and strong. Trained and prepared, as much as they could be.” He shakes his head, slowly settles himself into one of the library’s leather-lined chairs. “The bard is many things, many _admirable_ things, but he’s unprepared, and he’s no boy. He would not survive. By trying to save him, you would lose him all the faster.”

Yennefer stands there, fists clenched, her heart racing in her chest. “I can’t just watch him die,” she says, bitter and bitten off, and _fuck_ , that’s the first time she’s said it, that’s the first time she’s even entertained the possibility that Jaskier will _die_. He will age and wither and die, and there is _nothing_ she can do about it.

“Sit,” Vesemir says, not unkindly, and after a moment, Yennefer sits. “You have it better than most, sorceress,” he says, after a moment of quiet. “You and Geralt will have each other, after he’s gone. It’s not perfect, I know, but it’s better than nothing. You’ll lose one lover, but the other will remain.”

Yennefer bristles. “Do you think that that is _comfort_ to me?” she hisses. “They are not _interchangeable_ , Vesemir, I cannot simply swap one for another.” She pushes to her feet, hands trembling, arms shaking, skin practically on fire with rage and devastation and denial. “I will find a fucking way,” she spits. “With or without your witcher secrets.”

Vesemir’s eyes are all of a sudden so very old. “I hope you do, Yennefer,” he says, quieter, softer. “I truly hope you do.”

Yennefer can’t take the fucking _sympathy_ in his eyes. She goes.

Her house in Novigrad is exactly as she left it, efficient staff and neat rooms and the library an absolute _mess_. She stands in the door to the library for a long moment, staring at the uneven stacks of books that have clearly been neatened and dusted but not moved, and for a second she remembers that first night she spent here, all those weeks ago, panicked and terrified, turning pages so fast she split her fingertips on the sharp edges, writing notes in a shaky, barely-readable hand and trying so very hard to stop the fear from devouring her whole.

But it wasn’t _weeks_ , she abruptly realises. It was _months_.

“Madam Yennefer,” Roksana says at her elbow, as unobtrusive and reliable as she always is. “It is good to see you again. There is a guest waiting for you in the salon, along with your correspondence. Should I bring in supper for you both?”

“A guest?” Yennefer asks.

“Miss Cirilla,” Roksana says, and her lip twitches. “I did ask her to leave the swords with Bertrand, but she replied that she felt more comfortable keeping them with her.”

Yennefer smiles faintly. “Like father, like daughter,” she says. “Yes, supper would be excellent.” She pauses, and her smile broadens. “And I’ll see what I can do about the swords.”

Roksana looks deeply grateful.

Ciri is sitting sprawled out in one of the highbacked chairs in Yennefer’s salon, her booted feet propped up on the edge of the table, her arms folded absently across her stomach. The offending swords are propped up against the unlit fireplace, the faintest smear of something green and crusty on one of the hilts – and, oh, Geralt would be _furious_ if he saw that, Yennefer knows. “Not cleaning your swords properly, Cirilla?” Yennefer asks archly. “Your witcher trainers would be _ashamed_.”

Ciri twists in her chair, looks at Yennefer, then darts a look back at her swords and winces. “It was a long contract,” she says, sounding a little sheepish. “I’d only just got back from collecting payment when I heard that you were back in town. And I missed you by a couple of hours in the autumn, your housekeeper said, didn’t want to risk missing you again.” Her forehead wrinkles in a frown. “I don’t think she likes me, by the way.”

“She dislikes your swords,” Yennefer answers, taking a seat opposite Ciri and nudging her feet off the table with a short burst of Chaos. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ciri answers, sunny and full of laughter.

Something lightens in Yennefer’s chest, just a little. “What brings you to Novigrad?”

Ciri shrugs. “There’s always contracts in the area this time of year,” she says. “And I thought I’d stop by, see if you were around. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you, Yennefer.”

“I’ve been busy,” Yennefer says, a little too quickly.

“So I hear,” Ciri says, raising an eyebrow – and, oh, her voice is rich with laughter, with mockery, with the same gentle teasing that Yennefer has heard so many years from Jaskier’s lips. “Reports from all over the place: Yennefer of Vengerberg has been blasting through archives and libraries and private collections of academic texts, terrorising the historians and librarians of the Continent.”

“Just a research project,” Yennefer says, trying to calm the hammering of her heart.

“Any success?” Ciri asks, head cocked to one side.

“Not so far,” Yennefer answers, and doesn’t think about Vesemir, doesn’t think about all those pages she’s pawed through with no results, doesn’t think about the gnawing fear that’s settling deep in her gut. “But there’s still time.”

“Well, we missed you,” Ciri says blithely. “Kaer Morhen wasn’t the same without you popping in and terrifying Lambert – although he still spent half the winter jumping at shadows.” She laughs, hugs one knee up to her chest like she used to when she was a girl, her boot leaving the faintest smudge of Novigrad dirt across the embroidered cushions. “Jaskier made it into a competition – who can make Lambert shit himself the most times in a day? And _Geralt_ was actually the one who won, which surprised us all. I think it’s mainly because me and Jaskier had spent so long ripping the shit out of him that he didn’t expect _Geralt_ to be the one making the jokes.” She laughs, long and loud. “Oh, Yennefer, you should have seen his fucking _face!_ ”

Yennefer doesn’t winter with the witchers every year and she doesn’t even tend to spend the whole winter with them when she does. Most years, though, she’ll stay for a week or two, spend most of that time training with Ciri, terrorising Lambert, and doing her utmost to _thoroughly_ exhaust both of her lovers. It’s a snatched moment of quiet in the madness of her life, and she treasures it, she really does. She tucks the memories deep down in her heart and keeps them safe, keeps them for the nights when she’s alone and hurting and the pain is almost too much to bear.

But she wasn’t there this year.

How many more years does she have?

“Saw Jaskier in Oxenfurt before I came here, by the way,” Ciri says. “He said he hasn’t seen you since the autumn, six months or so? Something like that. He looked a bit like that time I accidentally stepped on a baby griffin’s tail while I was trying to get it back to its mother, all big, sad eyes and pouting – but he’s also managed to lose his glasses again, so he might just have been struggling to see.” She snorts, shakes her head. “I know he’s a smart man, Yennefer, but _gods_ , sometimes he acts like an idiot.”

Yennefer’s lips twitch, just a little. “He likes to be underestimated,” she says, a little softer than she’d like. “It comes from the days that he used to pass messages for the Redanian secret service, I think. It’s easier to go unnoticed if everyone thinks you’re a fool.”

“Makes sense,” Ciri says, then studies Yennefer for a moment, a smile creasing the skin around her eyes. “He said he misses you,” she says, then laughs to herself, adjusts: “Actually he’d had a glass or two of wine and he said that he missed, and I quote, ‘the press of your silken thighs around his ears’ – and then he remembered he was talking to _me_ , went bright red, swore a lot, and ordered me to forget everything I just heard.”

Yennefer laughs, and all of a sudden a rush of longing sweeps through her chest, warm as a roaring fire in the depths of winter. “I’m glad to see that you disobeyed him,” she says, eyebrow arched. “It wouldn’t be proper for you to be taking orders from a _bard_ , after all.”

“I’d never be welcome in your home again,” Ciri says, her eyes laughing.

Roksana chooses that moment to come in with the supper tray, two plates of baked salmon and two glasses of wine, and Ciri springs to her feet to help her set it down on the table between them. The politeness doesn’t stop Roksana eyeing Ciri’s swords suspiciously, but she smoothes down her skirts, nods to Yennefer, and leaves them to it without making any overt comments. Yennefer just hides a smile in her hand, and reaches for her wine.

They talk long into the night, updates and reminisces, laughter and moments of melancholy, and Ciri ends up sleeping in one of Yennefer’s guest rooms. She can’t stay longer—something about a joint contract with Eskel; Yennefer doesn’t pry—but that isn’t a problem, no, it isn’t a problem at all, because the moment Ciri has ridden away in the light of a summer morning, her black mare’s tail flicking high and proud, Yennefer takes a breath, reaches for her Chaos, and opens a portal to Oxenfurt.

It’s towards the end of the summer term, and therefore exam season. Students of the Academy bustle through the town’s quaint red-roofed streets with a faint air of panic, clutching quills and sheafs of notes, all of them dressed in the same odd uniform of black trousers, white shirt with an obscenely large ruffle down the front, black velvet ribbon tied in a bow around their neck, and formal academic gown. Yennefer studies the gowns as she makes her way through the streets, some of them long enough to sweep across the cobbles, others barely reaching the students’ waists, some elaborately embroidered, others plain and simple – and, well, she recognises a status marker when she sees one, but she has absolutely no idea what those status markers actually _signify_.

She likes the velvet ribbons, though.

The porters know her by now, and they let her through into the main building of the Academy without question. Some of the students peer at her as she goes, eyes wide and admiring, but most of them seem preoccupied with last-minute revision, bent over books and scrolls and handfuls of tattered handwritten notes.

Just for a moment, Yennefer thinks of the scrap of paper that she took from Jaskier’s desk, all those months ago. She still has it, hidden away in the depths of the small wyvernskin bag she carries over her shoulder – and she thinks about that poem, about those simple, unedited words— _evening fades to darkness cold_ —and, oh gods, no, she can’t do this. She can’t just smile at him and play nice, can’t share his bed and love him like that, no, she doesn’t fucking _deserve_ to love him if she can’t fucking _save him_ —

“ _Yennefer!_ ”

Yennefer has missed his voice.

Jaskier is striding towards her across the quad, ignoring the signs that politely insist _keep off the grass_ in favour of taking the shortest route possible to get to her. He’s wearing the same ridiculous outfit that his students are wearing, his gown so long and so heavily embroidered that it’s collecting tiny pebbles and dew-damp blades of grass along the bottom hem, and his lips are split in the broadest smile she’s seen him wear in years. He reaches her before she can marshal her thoughts, before she can reconcile the pang of grief and the burst of joy that war in her heart, and sweeps her into his arms, laughing into her hair, pressing a firm kiss to her neck and squeezing her waist so tight it almost hurts. “My darling fucking naiad,” he says, overflowing with happiness, “I have _missed_ you!”

His hair is still grey where it catches against Yennefer’s cheek. “Jaskier,” she says, wraps her arms around his shoulders, runs her fingers through his hair and can’t quite manage to keep the grief out of her eyes.

“And I thought I was lucky when Geralt showed up,” Jaskier says, half-muffled by her hair. “Gods, I love it when you’re both here at once.” He kisses her neck again, hugs her tighter.

Over his shoulder, Yennefer sees Geralt walking towards them, his shoulders light, his silver-white hair catching in the summer sun. He’s smiling, not as manic as Jaskier, not as exuberant but there all the same – but then he meets her eye and his expression stills, slides into concern. He quickens his step, worry written in his eyes, and he’s going to say something, he’s going to break this moment.

Yennefer slides her hand into Jaskier’s hair, shakes her head at Geralt as much as she can, begging without words, _Not now, Geralt, please, not now._

Geralt’s gaze flickers between them, focuses on her hand, gripping Jaskier’s grey-streaked hair so very tight, and all of a sudden Yennefer sees that he understands.

Jaskier pulls back, beams at her, then kisses her fiercely, brightly, so full of all that fucking _love_ that just spills out of his every pore. “Your timing is _appalling_ ,” he says cheerily, seemingly unaware of the grief that twists her gut. “I’m actually busy all day today assessing final recitals, so I’m afraid our witcher is going to have to keep you company.”

Yennefer takes a breath, pieces her heart back together as best she can. “Is that why you’re dressed in this absurd outfit?” she asks, plucking at the ruffles cascading down his chest.

“It is,” Jaskier says, a little wry. “Oxenfurt’s academic dress does leave a little to be desired in the fashion department, I have to admit.” He runs a fingertip across the velvet ribbon tied around his throat, studies her with a spark of heat in his eyes. “I look forward to you stripping me out of it later.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt rumbles, his hand coming to rest at Yennefer’s waist, light and gentle, reassuring. “You’re going to be late.”

“And whose fault is that, exactly?” Jaskier says primly. “ _You_ were the one who dragged me back into bed, you beast.”

“Go,” Geralt says, his smile shockingly fond, and Yennefer’s heart contracts in her chest.

Jaskier only grumbles quietly to himself. “I’ll meet you both tonight,” he says, kissing Geralt, kissing Yennefer, then groans softly to himself and kisses them both again. “ _Fuck_ ,” he says, eyes sparkling. “It’s been _far_ too long since I’ve had you both in my bed.” He laughs. “All my students are getting firsts no matter how shit they are, I’m in _far_ too good a mood to be a harsh marker today.” He kisses Yennefer once more, his hands on her cheeks, heated and passionate, a promise and a pledge. “Gods, I love you,” he whispers between her lips, kisses her again, and then he’s gone, sweeping out of the quad, his gown flaring out behind him like the wings of some dark-feathered bird.

Yennefer tastes a breath, closes her eyes.

Geralt takes her hand. “Come on,” he says softly. “Let’s get you a drink.”

“It’s first thing in the morning,” Yennefer says, her heart still racing in her chest.

Geralt guides her back towards Jaskier’s staircase, his hand resting warm and steady at the small of her back, and doesn’t answer.

Yennefer sits heavily in one of the overstuffed armchairs in Jaskier’s sitting room and watches as Geralt digs a demijohn of vodka and two crystal glasses out of a cabinet. He pours them each a generous measure, hands one glass to Yennefer, then sets the demijohn down on the low table between them and takes a seat in the matching armchair. He studies her for a moment, watches as she gulps down half her fucking glass, then takes a slow mouthful of his own, savours it for a moment.

Yennefer doesn’t speak. She doesn’t know where to start.

“It was maybe ten years after I met him,” Geralt says, his voice rough, pinched. “He’d been sharing my bed for six or so years by then, off and on. We never talked about it, even though sometimes I could tell he wanted to.” He pauses, stares at his glass, fragile and gleaming in his scarred hands. “And then I went on a hunt for a bruxa,” he says, shaking his head. “I tried to get the fucking idiot to stay behind, but he gave me some shit about vampires being good material for romantic ballads and insisted on coming with me.” He sips, slow and somehow frantic at the same time. Yennefer echoes the motion. “I lost track of her in the darkness,” Geralt says, “and when I turned around, she had her teeth buried in his throat.”

Yennefer sucks in a sharp breath. “I’ve seen the scar,” she says abruptly. “On his neck, below his ear.”

Geralt nods, something indefinable flickering across his expression. “He’s human,” he says. “I’d always known that. But standing there, watching that bruxa feed from him, that was the first time I realised that he was _mortal_.” He breathes, finishes his drink, reaches for the demijohn. Yennefer’s ahead of him, and she wordlessly holds her glass out for a refill. “It’s why I pushed him away,” Geralt says, not meeting her gaze. “After the dragon hunt, yes, but before then, too. Every time I could see that he wanted to talk instead of just fuck, I’d just shut him down. Change the subject, walk away. Left him in the middle of the Temerian moors, once, with nothing but his lute. Didn’t see him for four months.”

“You couldn’t cope with the prospect of losing him,” Yennefer says, her voice startlingly small.

Geralt hums, and sits back in his chair. “It’s part of why I was so drawn to you,” he says, quieter. “You’re like me. You won’t fade.” His lips curl in a bitter smile. “You’re harder to kill.”

Yennefer’s breath is shaky. “How do you do it?” she asks, fingers tight around the crystal glass. “How do you go on, knowing that every _moment_ you spend with him is a moment closer to losing him?”

Geralt doesn’t answer her question. “What happened?” he asks instead, studying her. “That morning you left, in the autumn. What happened?”

Yennefer tosses back her vodka far too quickly, coughs a little as it burns her throat. “A poem,” she says, feeling the warmth of the alcohol in her belly. “I found it on his desk. Some insignificant scrap of verse, not even finished. About his own fucking mortality.” Her hands tremble, just a little. “I looked at him,” she says, anger bubbling up in her voice, “fast asleep in your arms, and all I could see was _age_. The grey hair, the wrinkles, the fucking _glasses_ that he doesn’t seem to be able to keep track of.”

Geralt’s lips twist in a gentle, bitter smile. “I told him to keep them on a chain around his neck,” he says wryly, “but he told me that would make him look like someone called Professor Jankowski in the Astrology faculty, and that he’d lose any semblance of professional dignity if his students could compare him to an astrologer.”

Yennefer snorts. “I think he lost his dignity a long time ago,” she says. “Professional or otherwise.”

“Which is what I told him,” Geralt says. “Then he got annoyed and pushed me out of bed.”

Yennefer laughs at that image, short and sharp, but once she’s started she can’t seem to stop. She curls in on herself, glass of vodka held between shaking fingers, and she _laughs_ , angry and bitter and full of pain, full of all the frustration of a hundred archives searched, a hundred librarians menaced, a hundred towns scoured for their secrets and _nothing_ to show for it. She laughs because there’s nothing else she can do. She laughs because there’s nothing else _anyone_ can do – because she’s spent months trawling through the records of the Continent, months trying to find some way to _fix this_ , but she’s just the latest in a long line of humans who’ve tried to find a way to live forever. People have devoted their lives to this, hundreds of them, _thousands_ , and no one has managed to work it out.

Yennefer laughs, and somewhere along the way her laughter turns to tears, spilling down her cheeks, spattering across the polished wooden floor of Jaskier’s rooms. Sobs wrench themselves out of her like earthquakes, shuddering through her heart, her lungs, and _this_ is why she shouldn’t have done this, _this_ is why she should have kept him at arm’s length, _this_ is why she should have turned her back on him that night in Toussaint, should have left, should have pushed him away because _nothing_ is worth being this _vulnerable_.

Geralt’s kneeling at her side, and he takes the glass from her hand, sets it to one side, and pulls her into his arms. “Yen,” he says, his voice a throaty rumble, and holds her close.

Yennefer rends her fingernails into the fabric of his shirt, snarls into his shoulder, fights against the steel of his arms for a moment before she can’t do it anymore and she collapses against him, knees on the hard floors, cheeks wet with tears, breath hitching and pausing and, oh, fuck, she doesn’t know what to do. “I can’t do this,” she grinds out through gritted teeth. “I _can’t_.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything, just wraps his arms tighter around her.

Yennefer doesn’t know how long it takes for her breathing to slow, for her heart to stop racing, for her tears to stop falling. She stays in Geralt’s firm embrace a moment longer, then pushes away, gets to her feet, goes to the washbasin in Jaskier’s bedroom and cleans her face, washes her hands, brushes the dust and dirt off the skirts of her dress and takes a long, slow breath. She’s exhausted, utterly drained, but as Geralt comes to stand in the doorframe, silent and watchful, she realises that she feels a little lighter.

“Come with me,” Geralt says, and takes her hand. “I want to show you something.”

Yennefer’s hands aren’t trembling anymore.

Geralt leads her out into the summer sun, into the green of the lawns and the gold of the stone. It’s quiet, the students presumably gone to their exams, to their classes, to their studying, and Yennefer feels a strange kind of calm settling over her, bone-deep, wrung out. Geralt takes her on a winding path through the Academy’s cloisters and quadrangles, past statues of long-dead kings and extravagantly topiaried hedges, under elegant arches and dappled stained glass. He doesn’t speak to her, doesn’t distract her with meaningless chatter, and Yennefer finds that she’s glad. She listens to the birdsong, to the rhythm of their footsteps, to the whisper of the summer breeze, to the rustle of pages and the soft murmur of voices.

And to the music.

Yennefer frowns, cocks her head to the side, and listens.

There’s music coming from somewhere up ahead, a female voice singing something high and startlingly fast to the accompaniment of a harp. Yennefer isn’t a professional but she’s heard Jaskier jabber about music more than enough to know that whoever the singer is, she is extremely talented.

Geralt guides Yennefer to a bench, wood worn smooth through the seasons and the years, and they sit. She frowns as the singer comes to a triumphant finish, trilling on a staggeringly high note for a period of time that Yennefer thinks _must_ be magically enhanced somehow, no one’s lung capacity can be _that_ impressive. “I thought you wanted to show me something?” she asks into the brief silence that follows.

Geralt settles back against the bench. “Just listen,” he says, and leaves it at that.

Yennefer’s too tired to do anything else.

She sits back, Geralt a reassuringly solid presence at her side, and closes her eyes. The sun is warm, the breeze is cooling, and she lets herself relax as much as she can, the numbness in her heart starting to fade, just a little. The music fills the air around her, that same lilting female voice sliding through the notes with an elegance and a grace that Yennefer can’t help but envy, just a little, and they’re too far away from wherever she’s singing to hear the words but the melodies are clear enough. High and sparkling and astonishingly fast, then slow and rich and full of emotional depth, then intricate and dancing, a clear showpiece, bouncing up and down the octave like it’s easy, like it’s no more complex than breathing. Yennefer doesn’t recognise them, but she can appreciate the skill involved.

There’s a pause between songs, and Yennefer looks up at the deep, rich blue of the sky.

The female singer’s voice weaves through the summer stillness once more, this time singing something slow and sultry, lyrical and languorous. She’s unaccompanied, no harp this time, no flute or lute or viol, either, and Yennefer frowns because she thinks she recognises this melody. She still can’t make out the words, which doesn’t help, and she leans forward, head cocked to one side, listening.

It comes to her in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

“Shit,” she whispers, recognition seizing in her heart.

“Yen?”

“This is one of Jaskier’s songs,” Yennefer says, her mouth dry, her fingers clenching uselessly in her skirts. “It’s…” She trails off, can’t continue, because this is the song that he sang in Toussaint, this is the song that he sang at that heat-drenched banquet where the sweat dripped off the end of the duke’s nose and the guests drank until they poured their drinks all over themselves. This is the song that he sang for _her_ , the song that he wrote because he couldn’t help himself, because he was completely in love with her and he thought that she would never feel the same. It’s the song that he still sometimes hums to her on lazy mornings in bed, the song that echoes in her heart whenever she sees him smile.

The girl sings Jaskier’s love song in her bright, young voice, adding vocal flourishes and elegant trills, singing a bright, beautiful song of someone else’s heartbreak.

“It’s the final recitals,” Geralt says, his arm stretched along the bench behind her. “The ones he’s assessing.” He stretches his legs out across the grass in front of them. “I sat out here yesterday when I was waiting for him to finish, and pretty much every student sings something of his. Heard four different versions of _Toss A Fucking Coin_ , none of them as good as the original.”

A smile twitches Yennefer’s lips. “They’re trying to flatter their tutor into giving them higher marks.”

“Something like that,” Geralt answers, amusement thick in his voice.

Yennefer twists to look at him as the singer’s voice floats silky and warm through the air. “Is this what you wanted to show me?” she asks. “Because if so, I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

Geralt watches her for a moment, his yellow eyes blazingly gold in the summer sun. “I don’t know this song,” he says. “What’s it about?”

Yennefer’s mouth is dry. “It’s about me,” she says softly. “It’s – a love song.”

Geralt smiles, small and achingly warm. “The songs survive,” he says, and, oh, Yennefer can hear the pain in his voice, the sadness, the _grief_. “I’ve heard them sung in taverns and inns across the Continent – courts, too. His words, his music on other singers’ lips. His songs will outlast him.”

Yennefer can’t stop the shudder that twists through her. “Is that supposed to _help_?” she asks, but can’t quite find the bile she wants to pour into her voice.

Geralt nods towards the sound of the girl’s voice. “His love for you is in that song,” he says. “And the song will survive.”

Yennefer’s heart twists. “Is that all we get?” she asks, her voice high and thin, almost reedy. “His _songs_? He will die, and we will lose him, and we are supposed to be satisfied with his songs?”

“No,” Geralt says, suddenly sharp. “No, we’re not supposed to be _satisfied_ with it, Yen. There is nothing _satisfying_ about it – but you asked me how I do it. How I cope.” His jaw is tight, his eyes are blazing, and all around them the sweet sound of the girl’s voice hangs in the air. “This is how,” he says, softer. “I cannot spend the rest of the time I have with him _mourning_ , and neither can you. If nothing else, it isn’t fair on him.” A muscle jumps in his jaw. “We have the rest of our lives to grieve him,” he says, bitter and broken. “He doesn’t get that luxury.”

Yennefer closes her eyes, listens to the soft sound of the girl’s voice mingling with the summer breeze, the song of the birds, the murmur of distant footsteps – and she isn’t Jaskier, whoever she is, she could never _be_ Jaskier, but she can hear the echo of his voice in hers. It hurts, like a needle in her heart.

“Do we just _stay_ with him?” she asks, barely more than a whisper. “Do we just watch him age, watch him lose his hair and his eyesight and his memory, watch him wither into a shadow of himself?” – and Yennefer has never had the gift of foresight, never been able to see glimpses of things that are yet to be, but in this moment she _can_ see it, sharper in her mind than any thought, any memory. The soft fleece of the blankets, the delicate embroidery across the pillows, the tracery of thin blue veins across the backs of lute-calloused hands. Clouded blue eyes, skin creased like paper, the smell of salt in the air. Geralt, looking no different to how he does now, sitting with Jaskier’s aged hands in his, speaking to him so softly, so gently, brushing snow-white hair back from his eyes – and Jaskier sighs, lips curling in a smile, and turns his gaze to Yennefer, brighter than the sun and so full of love, even now.

“Yen?”

Yennefer opens her eyes to summer in Oxenfurt. “Do we watch him die, Geralt?” she asks, too tired to be combative. “Is _that_ what we do?”

“If we have to,” Geralt says, and his lips twist in bitter irony. “But we live dangerous lives, Yen. We might not live long enough ourselves.”

Yennefer ignores his flippancy. “And what then?” she asks, the taste of salt still heavy on her lips. “When he’s gone?”

“We sing his songs for him,” Geralt answers. “We keep his memory alive, any way we can. The _only_ way we can.”

Yennefer smiles bitterly. “Neither of us is much of a singer, Geralt.”

Geralt inclines his head towards the sound of the girl’s voice, now singing something different, a series of fast-paced, rippling notes that sound like the bubbling of a river in spring. “But she is,” he says. “And the others who study here. Jaskier’s students, his friends. His words, his songs – they’ll sing them after he’s gone.”

Yennefer reaches out, grips Geralt’s hand, digs her nails in so hard it must hurt. She doesn’t know what to say.

“He’s still here, Yen,” Geralt says softly. “Or he’s in _there_ , at least, preening and overmarking his students. And he’ll be with us tonight, prancing around in that stupid Oxenfurt outfit until we tear it off him.”

Yennefer tries to smile. “I might borrow the ribbon,” she says, her voice hoarse, and touches the obsidian star hanging around her throat. “This one’s getting a little worn.”

Geralt’s lips twitch in a quiet smile, and he leans forward, kisses her softly. “I love you, Yen,” he says. “So does Jaskier.”

“It would be easier if you didn’t,” Yennefer says, resting her forehead against his. “It would be easier if I didn’t give a fuck about either of you. If Jaskier had never seen me in Vizima. If I’d never come back to you in Ard Carraigh. It wouldn’t hurt so much.”

Geralt pauses, his breath warm against her lips. “Do you regret it?”

Yennefer kisses him. “I wish I did,” she says, and feels something settle in her heart. “That would be easier, too, because then I would have a justification for walking away.” She reaches up, runs her fingers through Geralt’s hair. “But for some reason, I don’t.”

Geralt hums. “High praise.”

All of a sudden, Yennefer is so very tired. Her muscles are sore, her fingers are aching, and there’s a persistent, nagging exhaustion settled deep in her chest that she can’t quite manage to shake off. “I think,” she says, a little uneven, “that we should get something to eat. And then I’d really quite like to go back and finish off that vodka, unless you have other plans for the day.”

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” Geralt says, and kisses her once more before he gets to his feet. “Come on. Jaskier took me to a little place down on the waterfront yesterday – they do good kippers.”

“Kippers,” Yennefer echoes thoughtfully, then nods, takes Geralt’s offered hand and stands. “Do they do them with poached eggs?”

“They do,” Geralt confirms, and leads her away through the cloisters of the Academy.

They go to a small, homespun café with a striped awning set right on the riverfront, and Yennefer eats poached eggs and kippers, the yolk perfectly cooked, the kippers fresh and peppery on her tongue. The sun is hot and heavy in the sky by the time they’re done, and they walk slowly through the streets of Oxenfurt town, Yennefer’s hand tucked in the crook of Geralt’s elbow, promenading in the sunlight like they’re courting, like they’re flirting, like they’re normal folk, not a witcher and a sorceress tied together by death and destiny. They grab a late lunch in the town, pierogi and beers at a rickety market stall, then they go back to Jaskier’s rooms for a little while, drink a few more glasses of what is actually fairly nice vodka, then take the demijohn down to the quad below, lounge across the grass they’re not supposed to walk on until they’re chased away by one of the groundskeepers who clearly doesn’t give a shit who they are or how much power they have between them. They go back to the bench outside the music faculty, in the end, to listen to the last few students of the day and critique their performances, and when the doors open and the examiners come filing out, they’re waiting.

Jaskier sees them straight away. He bids farewell to his colleagues, a grin splitting his lips, and Yennefer’s heart hurts when she sees him, yes, but the pain isn’t skewering anymore, isn’t violent, isn’t the kind of agony that tears her apart from the inside out. He’s still here. He’s still here, right in front of her, eyes as blue as the sky, ruffled shirt and heavy gown and velvet ribbon, and she goes to him, pulls him to her in front of passing academics and loitering students, kisses him like it’s their first kiss, kisses him and feels her heart soar when he kisses her back.

“Get me out of these clothes, Yennefer,” Jaskier murmurs against her lips, his breath sweet and heady. “It’s been _far_ too long since I’ve been inside you.”

Back in Jaskier’s rooms, Yennefer and Geralt pin their fragile, mortal bard between them and strip him naked, the frills and fripperies of his academic dress falling to the floor in a pile of ruffles and embroidery. Jaskier goes to rip the ribbon from his throat, pupils shot wide, cheeks flushed and lips red, but Yennefer stops him, knots it a little tighter, then uses it to lead him to bed. He makes a little groaning noise in the back of his throat as she pushes him down to the bedspread, then sighs her name like it’s the finest song he’s ever sung. Yennefer strips off her dress and settles into his lap, velvet ribbon wrapped around her fingers, and she kisses him like this is the only thing that matters, like _he’s_ the only thing that matters – and then Geralt’s there at her back, his lips hot on her neck, his hands sliding up to cup her breasts, and, well, it only gets better from there on in.

When Yennefer has them both inside her, Jaskier murmuring sweet nothings into her throat, Geralt letting out wordless breathy grunts with every twitch of his hips, she lets her head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder and loses herself in the sensation. The heat, the stretch, the unstoppable pleasure that sparks through every nerve in her body, the damp rush of Geralt’s breath, the slick press of Jaskier’s lips – it’s so much, almost too much. It’s perfect. This is perfect.

Yennefer turns to catch Geralt’s lips in a messy kiss, then leans forward, takes Jaskier’s face between her hands, kisses him in turn. “ _Yennefer_ ,” he groans between her lips, and Geralt almost _growls_ into her shoulder in response.

Jaskier comes first, collapsing back on the bed with hitching, gasping moans, and then he reaches down between Yennefer’s legs, brings her to orgasm with rough, exacting strokes of his fingertips. She cries out, spasms against Jaskier’s hands, and the movement must do _something_ to Geralt because he buries a gasp in her shoulder, thrusts a few more harsh, snapping times, and comes with a rumbling groan.

“Fuck,” Jaskier husks, laid out on the bed beneath her, flushed and sweaty and grinning, that black velvet ribbon still tied tight around his throat. “I’ve _missed_ this.”

Yennefer feels Geralt’s arms around her waist, warm and strong, and that needle is still in her heart, sharp and piercing, but it’s like a remembered pain, now. It isn’t so insistent. “I missed you,” she says, one hand twining with Geralt’s over her stomach, the other scratching through the hair on Jaskier’s chest. “I’m sorry I was gone so long.”

Jaskier reaches up, brushes his thumb across her cheek. His smile is soft. “You don’t need to apologise,” he says. “I’m here whenever you want me.”

“I _always_ want you,” Yennefer says, and feels Geralt bury his nose in her hair, huff a laugh against the nape of her neck. She reaches down, toys with the end of the ribbon around Jaskier’s neck. “That’s sort of the problem.”

Jaskier laughs. “Well, then,” he practically purrs. “Why don’t you come down here and kiss me? We’ve got plenty of time, after all. I’ve got nowhere I need to be.”

Yennefer doesn’t exactly get much sleep that night.

In the morning, she’s woken by Geralt shifting on Jaskier’s other side, muttering something about needing a piss and rooting around for his trousers. Yennefer ignores him, just rolls over and buries her face in Jaskier’s shoulder, her fingers scratching lightly across his bare stomach, a little softer than it used to be. “Bring us breakfast!” Jaskier demands, throws his arm around her shoulders, hugging her closer. “I demand it. Bacon and eggs and toast and orange juice. And black pudding! Oh, and _mushrooms_.”

“You’re spoilt,” Geralt says fondly.

“I just have high standards,” Jaskier answers, laughing.

Geralt hums, amused, and Yennefer listens to the sound of his retreating footsteps, eyes still closed.

Jaskier’s fingers run slowly through her hair, and he presses a kiss to her forehead. “Now that we’re alone, my naiad,” he says, soft and startlingly tender, “do you want to talk about whatever’s bothering you?” He kisses her again, careful and light. “You don’t have to,” he murmurs against her skin. “I know how much you _love_ talking about your emotions – it’s just your _favourite_ thing.” Yennefer snorts at the sarcasm, tilts upwards, catches his lips in a kiss. “And I’m assuming,” Jaskier continues, “from the fact that my vodka is half empty when it definitely wasn’t yesterday morning that you actually managed to get some kind of productive conversation out of Geralt – so, you know, you might not even need me.” He kisses her once more, his hand carding through her hair. “But I love you,” he says softly, curling closer. “And I missed you. And I’ve made you come at _least_ four times, so now I think it’s time for me to see to your _emotional_ needs, too.”

Yennefer laughs, just a little, and traces patterns across the skin of his chest, a little more weathered, a little less youthful, but still solid and steady under her hands. “I thought you hadn’t noticed,” she says, not quite meeting his gaze.

“What, didn’t notice that the moment you saw me, you looked like you wanted to vomit?” Jaskier asks, a little teasing, a little concerned. “No, that wasn’t obvious _at all_.”

Yennefer glares at him. “You didn’t say anything.”

“I was dressed up like a fool and running late for my students’ final recitals,” Jaskier answers gently. “I know I like to cultivate a reputation for being unreliable and a bit of a disaster, but they do rely on me – and this is pretty much the one time in the academic year that I _can’t_ just reschedule whenever the mood suits me.” He tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and Yennefer abruptly realises that there’s guilt in his expression, cloying and thick. “I knew Geralt would look after you,” Jaskier says, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “I had to trust that that would be enough.”

For a second, Yennefer considers not telling him. She knows that she could, knows that she could just say that it’s done, it’s sorted, Geralt held her hand through it and it’s all fine – and Jaskier would accept that. That would be the easier path, the less painful path. It would be simpler.

Yennefer extricates herself from his embrace, slips out of bed, and pads to where she left her wyvernskin bag, hung from Jaskier’s desk chair by its shoulder-strap. She can feel Jaskier watching, intrigued, as she retrieves the tiny folded scrap of paper, feels it warm and worn against the skin of her palm, and then she goes back to bed, tangles herself up in him and presses the stolen poem into his hand. She can’t quite look at him as he unfolds it so she gazes out the window instead, watches the whispering leaves of the cherry tree that woke her all those months ago, watches the blue of the sky and the bright warmth of the sun.

Jaskier lets out a soft breath. “Oh,” he says, and almost instinctively pulls her closer.

The paper is torn and tattered, splattered with blue ink she knocked over in Ban Ard, one corner ripped clean away, another stained with a splash of red wine from a particularly bad night in some little monastery in the arse end of Lyria. The words, though, are untouched, and Yennefer watches Jaskier run his fingertips over his own handwriting, squinting a little to read it. “I thought I lost this,” he says, a little absent. “Figured I must have accidentally thrown it out. I do that, sometimes. More so recently.”

“I found it on your desk,” Yennefer says, her hand pressed to his heart, feeling the steady thudding of his pulse, of his life. “In the autumn, when I left. I didn’t intend to take it.”

Jaskier’s arm tightens around her. “No need to apologise,” he says, even though she didn’t. “It was… just a thought. A passing moment. It’s not even very good.” He lets the poem fall to the floor and turns to face her. His eyes are so very blue and so very bright. “I’m sorry, Yennefer,” he whispers, his arms shaking, just a little, his breath guttering against her lips. “So _fucking_ sorry.” – and Yennefer knows that he’s not sorry for the quality of the poetry or for letting her find it like that, no, he’s sorry for _everything_. For her grief, for her loss. For being the one to hurt her. For being the one to, one day, break her heart.

Yennefer lets out a soft, stuttering breath, and kisses him as hard as she can.

The sex is rushed and rough, not tender, not teasing, not loving and ecstatic and full of laughter like it usually is. Jaskier is wordless, for once, preoccupied with plundering her mouth and fucking into her as hard and fast as he can, and Yennefer doesn’t command or instruct or direct, no, she just winds her hands into his hair and closes her eyes as he does everything in his power to show her that he’s still here, he’s still alive, he’s still _hers_. She comes with a hoarse cry, and he follows her over the edge seconds later, forehead buried in her throat, breath panting hot against her chest.

Neither of them speaks, afterwards, because there are no words to be said.

Geralt comes back a little later, carrying a tray that’s piled high with a frankly obscene amount of breakfast food. He takes one look at them, wrapped up together, buried in each other in tear-streaked silence, and puts the tray to one side, strips off, gets back into bed. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t try to separate them, just adds himself to the tangle of their bodies, chest pressed to Jaskier’s back, fingers tangling in Yennefer’s hair.

Jaskier lets out a soft breath, held between them as he always is. “I love you,” he says, his voice firm and sure and only breaking right at the end. “Both of you. I will _always_ love you. Even when I’m dead and gone, when I’m nothing more than rotting bones in the ground and you two are still young and gorgeous, I swear to you right now that my ghost will follow you both around, singing paeans and hymns about how much I _fucking_ love you.”

Geralt snorts softly, and Yennefer watches him kiss Jaskier’s shoulder. “Don’t turn into a ghost,” he murmurs. “Don’t want to have to take a contract to get rid of you.”

Jaskier scoffs. “Like you’d be able to get rid of _me_ ,” he says. “I know all your tricks, witcher. I’d slip right out of your grasp.”

“While singing hymns about how much you love him?” Yennefer asks, an ache in her heart and an arch to her eyebrow. “Seems a little counterproductive.”

“What, so you _want_ Geralt to banish ghost-me?” Jaskier asks, mock-offended. “Yennefer, how _could_ you?”

“I’m fairly sure that you would only be more irritating as a ghost,” Yennefer says, and it’s dry and it’s dark and, for some reason, it lifts a weight from her heart. “Now, I can just lock my door if I can’t be bothered to listen to your caterwauling. If you were a ghost, you could just drift in through the wall.”

“My _caterwauling_?” Jaskier objects in a shrill voice.

“There are ways you can protect against spirits and wraiths,” Geralt offers, his arm sliding around Jaskier’s stomach, his lips curling in a smirk. “Symbols, rituals. We could keep him out.”

“Oh, so now I’m dead _and_ rejected by my immortal lovers,” Jaskier says. “Perfect. Ghost-me is going to stand right underneath your bedroom window and serenade you all night long. All those songs I’ve written about your mighty rod of love, Geralt, and about Yennefer’s quivering nub of delight? The ones I’m not allowed to sing in public? You’re getting nightly spectral concerts of _all_ of them. I’ll make sure my lute is perfectly discordant, too, as befits a restless spirit – although I’m not sure it would make much of a difference to you two musical philistines.”

“Ghosts don’t have lutes, Jaskier,” Geralt answers, as brusque and amused as ever.

“Oh, fuck you, witcher, _my_ ghost will have all the lutes he fucking wants!”

Yennefer laughs, a real laugh, this time, so bright it’s almost blinding. She can still feel that needle in her heart, that jolting, aching pain that she knows she’ll live with for the rest of her long life – but Jaskier is smiling at her, the crows feet around his eyes creasing with laughter, the grey in his hair shining in the soft morning light. He’s still here, trading jibes with Geralt as easy as breathing, and even if this won’t last forever, even if one day she’ll sit at his bedside in a cottage by the sea and watch him fade away, that future doesn’t erase this moment.

“I’ll make one for you,” Yennefer says, not bothering to hide her smile. “A ghostly lute. You can take it with you wherever you wander, and caterwaul in the night to your heart’s content.”

“See, Geralt?” Jaskier says. “At least _Yennefer_ is trying to offer a creative solution.”

“Of course, I’d have to destroy your _actual_ lute to do it,” Yennefer says blithely, her fingertips tracing patterns in the curls of his hair. “Smash it up. Grind the wood into dust, snap the strings. Melt down the gilt and burn the tuning pegs.” She shrugs. “It’s the only way.”

Jaskier’s outraged protests and Yennefer’s laughing replies are lost in the hum of another summer morning, little more than a whisper beneath the patter of students’ feet and the mutter of their conversations, a counterpoint to the lilting, vibrant birdsong overhead. The sky is rich and blue, the sun beats down on the green lawns and the red roofs, and in one of the Academy’s sprawling quads, a young woman lies with her head in her lover’s lap, relaxed and happy after the last of her exams. She’s humming absently under her breath, only half aware she’s doing it, singing one of the songs that she performed for her examiners yesterday afternoon, a song of obsidian-black midnight skies, of bruised purple stormclouds, of wine in Vizima and whisky in Aretuza, of lavender mead in Kaedwen and Est Est in Toussaint, of _more_ wine in Kaer Morhen, of vodka in Oxenfurt on a bright summer’s day. The sultry, languid melody spirals up into the deep blue of the sky, echoing in the open spaces of the world.

It’s a love song. And it’s not even fucking subtle.


	7. Podfic/Podbook Download Links

**Coverartist:** reena_jenkins

 **Length:** 09:44:36

**[Download the entire podfic as a zipped mp3 file here (417.7 MB)](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses.zip) **

**[Download the entire podfic as a podbook (m4b) here (442.5 MB)](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podbooks/\(W\)%20%22A%20Good%20Few%20Verses%22.m4b) **

**[DOWNLOAD/STREAM THE AUTHOR'S NOTES | 00:06:52](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/Author's%20Notes%20-%20\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_.mp3) **

**[DOWNLOAD/STREAM THE READER'S NOTES | 00:17:14](https://reena.parakaproductions.com/podfics/A%20Good%20Few%20Verses/Reader's%20Notes%20-%20\(W\)%20_A%20Good%20Few%20Verses_.mp3) **


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